


The Fairy Stone

by ciannwn, twitchbell



Category: Angel: the Series, Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Angst, Crossover, M/M, Romance, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-24
Updated: 2011-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-18 14:58:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/190089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ciannwn/pseuds/ciannwn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/twitchbell/pseuds/twitchbell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone wants the green jewel that Curt gave to Arthur - can Angel Investigations find out who and why?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: This story has a dark, angst-ridden portrayal of Brian Slade, which might not be to everyone's taste.

Prologue  


Bland and anonymous, the office looked as if it was still waiting for a permanent occupant to mark it with some personality.  There was nothing in the expensive fixtures and fittings to distinguish it from any other office in a prosperous firm: two short couches were grouped together against a side wall, and a desk, empty except for a phone and computer, lay at right angles to the window forming the far wall of the office.  Although the smoky hue of the glass dulled the natural light, the window still provided a panoramic view of the beating heart of the city - silent and remote under the bright sun.  Air conditioning purred softly in the background, keeping the office temperature at a predetermined level of comfort.

In spite of this, the man standing at one side of the desk was sweating.  He was staring into thin air, his eyes narrowed and intensely focussed as if he was locked on something beyond the material world that surrounded him.  Whatever he was doing was taking an actual physical effort.  His breathing was fast and shallow as if he was running, his hair slick with perspiration where it fell across his forehead.  Then abruptly he blinked and drew in a sharp breath, thrusting his hands through his hair with quick, jerky movements.

"It's no good.  I can't do it.  I'm still not strong enough."  There was a look of cold anger in his eyes as if he felt that he should have been able to succeed this time and resented his failure with a vengeance.

His words were addressed to the second occupant of the room who was seated behind the desk, watching him in silence.  The other man shrugged off this lack of success as unimportant.  "No matter.  We have more mundane methods at our disposal."  He called up a line on the phone and rapped out a series of instructions before cutting the connection.  Then he stared back up at his companion.  "Don't take it so hard, Mr. Johnson.  These skills require time to perfect."

Johnson, obviously still brooding over his failure, was pacing the room, his lips a thin, hard line.  At these words, he made an obvious effort to regain his composure.  "Yes, but I'm sure you appreciate how frustrating I find the situation.  To know I have the talent and yet not be able to draw on it!"

"Your skills will develop with practise," the man said.  "Rest assured that we have every confidence in your abilities."

The phone buzzed and the man answered it immediately, listening intently to the information.  He cut the call and looked up with a small, satisfied smile.  "It appears we're in luck.  He's now living in Los Angeles."

"I thought you could operate wherever you wished in the country?"

"We can, but for logistical reasons this will make the operation easier.  LA is our centre of operations, after all."  

"I see.  I don't wish to appear to doubt your expertise in these matters.  You are, after all, the specialists here.  But this enterprise is very important to me." 

The man regarded him steadily.  "Mr. Johnson, we do not divulge our secrets or our methods lightly.  And I can assure you that if did we not attach the same regard to this enterprise as you do, you would not be working for us in any capacity and we would not be having this conversation.  Return to your office, and I'll see that all the necessary information is sent to you.  Then you will make your arrangements accordingly." 

Johnson blinked.  "You want _me_ to make the arrangements?" 

"Of course.  We will place our range of resources at your disposal, but you will be in charge of the operation.  We expect our associates to be able to rise to challenges, Mr. Johnson.  Consider this your first test."

 

  


  
Part One   
  


 

"Lights ... cars ... headlights!  Vampires ... four of them ... big, ugly vampires ... a house ..."

"Address?"  It wasn't that Angel was callous.  He knew how painful Cordelia found these visions, but he also knew that it was imperative to get the information out of her while the details were still fresh in her mind.

Cordelia screwed up her face, concentrating for all she was worth, and managed to pull out a district, street and number from the vision.  Angel recorded them rapidly onto a piece of paper.  "Got it."   

"Just vampires?"  Wesley queried, handing across a glass of water and two painkillers as Cordelia relaxed suddenly and slumped back against the couch.  Angel wondered if he was hankering after something more exotic, and smiled slightly.

"Really big, ugly vampires," Cordelia reminded him, taking the glass and painkillers.  She knocked the pills back with one gulp and then put the glass on the table before leaning back, one hand against her forehead.  It looked theatrical and in any other circumstance it probably would've been just that.  But Angel knew full well that the visions hurt; they'd shaken up Doyle, too, for all he'd been part demon. "They were after some guy ... I think ... " Cordelia frowned.  "I wasn't real clear on that part ...  Anyway, scoot.  You've got to be somewhere else."

"You'll be all right here?"  Wesley asked; this wasn't a redundant question given the pallor of Cordelia's complexion.  She looked more wiped out by this vision than she had by many others, Angel thought, and yet the details she'd given hadn't appeared to be anything out of the ordinary.

"Sure, I'll be fine." Cordelia closed her eyes and sighed.  "The painkillers will kick in soon, and hey, still got that filing to do, and we might even get a customer.  Oh, wait!" Her eyes blinked open again just as Angel got to the door.  "One more thing."

"What?" he asked, wondering if she'd recalled some other detail that might prove useful.

"Be sure and find out if this guy can _pay_.  That looked a classy sort of house – he might actually be a _rich_ person."

\--------

The car's heating was on the fritz again.  It had only been a fifteen-minute drive home, but the car had obstinately refused to blow out hot air, seeming happier to send out icy blasts that had probably made the car colder than the air temperature outside.

Curt Wild had sworn at it – profusely and inventively – but to no avail.  By the time he swung the car round into the gravelled drive of the house he'd given up and was hunched into his tee-shirt, wishing he'd remembered how cool it could get in the evening and had brought something warmer.  Or that he was two or three decades younger, back when he hadn't felt the cold – which admittedly was probably because he'd been too high on something for such niceties to penetrate his drug-addled brain.

The porch light was on, and so was the light from Arthur's study.  The rest of the house was in darkness, which meant Arthur was still working and there'd be nothing for dinner unless Curt found something edible in the refrigerator – an unlikely event, seeing as neither of them had done any shopping lately.  Belatedly Curt remembered that he was supposed to have picked up some groceries on his way back from the recording studio.  Shit.  He'd never get used to this domestic crap.  They'd have to start ordering the stuff on-line or something. 

Curt drew the car to a halt, switching off the engine and cutting the lights.  Then he screwed up his eyes against the unexpected glare of headlights in the rear-view mirror as a car pulled up behind him. "Who the –" he muttered, and then figured it was probably someone to see Arthur.  When Arthur was interviewing he liked to talk to people face to face – claiming it often wasn't so much what they said but how they said it that was crucial.  He occasionally conducted interviews at the house, although he only did so when the interviewee was a personal acquaintance of either his or Curt's; there were a lot of crazy people out there, and Arthur was way too cautious to run the risk of inadvertently inviting some of them in.

Which is why alarm bells began ringing in Curt's mind the moment he stepped out of the car and took a good look at these visitors.  Four men of indeterminate age, wearing suits and bland expressions, faced him expectantly.  Curt had never seen them before in his life, and he'd lay odds that Arthur hadn't either.  Were they lawyers of some sort?  Their suits indicated as much, but their build and the way they moved suggested the type of man more familiar with bar room brawls than barristers' offices.

"You want something?" Curt asked.

"We're here to see Arthur Stuart," one of the men said.  His voice was toneless, but the lack of inflection was sinister rather than reassuring.

"He expecting you?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll just check that out."  Curt turned, and discovered that during this short conversation two of the men had moved position.  They now stood between him and the porch. 

"On second thoughts, there's no need to trouble Mr. Stuart.  I believe _you_ actually have what we're looking for.  Something we've been sent to collect."

"What?"  Curt was only half-listening.  Those alarm bells had become loud, screaming sirens by now, and his mind was racing as he thought what to do next.  He was nowhere near the size of these guys, and he had at least ten or fifteen years on them, so fighting just wasn't an option.  And yelling for help wouldn't be a good idea; the driveway was set back from the road, screened by a copse of trees, and they'd no immediate neighbours – which meant that the only person in a position to respond would be Arthur.  The possibility of him rushing all unsuspecting into this situation wasn't something Curt was prepared to take a chance on. "I thought you said you were here to see Arthur." 

"I lied."  The man showed his teeth.  It wasn't a pleasant expression.

Curt remembered his cellphone and, without thinking, he shoved both hands in his pockets, relief washing over him as he realised he'd got it with him.  The euphoria lasted only a few short seconds: he could hardly expect these goons to stand by politely while he called the cops. But, he thought with a fresh surge of hope, maybe if he could get back to the car, lock himself in and –

Too late.  One of the men directly behind Curt grabbed his arm and twisted it up behind his back.  He gasped - in both pain and rising panic.  Being held like this against his will brought back a lot of painful shit he thought he'd dealt with, making it hard to think straight.  Another pair of hands patted his pockets, deftly removing the cellphone.  The crunch as the gadget was dropped and trodden on told Curt that he could rule out any hope of using it to summon help.  

"All we want is the green jewel." The spokesman's voice no longer lacked expression; now it was all sweet reason, underpinned with a large hint of menace.  "Give it to us and no-one need get hurt."

"What green jewel?  I haven't got any green jewel ..." Curt paused, suddenly aware of what they meant.  And then he realised that the last thing he should have done was go silent on them, that he should have continued to protest his ignorance as loudly as possible.  Now he'd given away the fact that he'd grasped what they were referring to.

"You know exactly what we mean.  If you haven't got it, where is it?" 

"I'm not telling you anything.  Now get the hell off my property!" 

His arm was lifted and twisted just that little bit higher, as the chief goon pushed his face close up to Curt's.  "You're not in any position to issue orders, Mr. Wild.  It's time you started to take us more seriously."

And then, in the space of a heartbeat, the face before him contorted and _changed_.  The eyes yellowed, the forehead suddenly becoming a distended mask, and the lips peeled back in a malevolent smile, revealing fanged eyeteeth. 

Not real, not happening ...  Some part of Curt still tried to hang on to shreds of sanity while the rest of him screamed a horrified denial.  Or at least tried to, because there was a large hand clamped around his mouth now which was all but suffocating him.

"You have no idea what we are, or what we can do.  But I assure you you'll find out if you don't cooperate."  The grotesquely altered face switched its gaze momentarily to hold a silent communication with its colleague and then the hand over Curt's mouth shifted to his throat; the threat of strangulation if he failed to cooperate was implicit.  "Now answer my question: where is the green jewel?"

In some part of his mind that wasn't either gibbering or in deep denial, Curt knew he should lie, should think up something, _anything_ , to make them go away.  But he couldn't do it; he could only stare in terrified fascination at the creature looming over him.  Not real, not happening ...

"Curt?  What's up?"

Beyond the creature confronting him Curt could see the open door of the porch ... and Arthur's figure framed in the doorway as he peered out trying to see what was going on. 

Reality kicked back with shocking swiftness, beating back Curt's attempts at denial with the brutal truth.  This _was_ happening, and Arthur was going to walk all unknowing right into the middle of a nightmare.  Curt tried to frantically to warn him, but the hand clamped back over his mouth and his scream was smothered in his throat. 

 

\--------

 

Cordelia hadn't been lying about the vampires, Angel thought as Wesley spun the car sharply into the driveway with a protesting squeal of tyres.  There were four of them all right, and they were definitely big, ugly brutes.  One of them had hold of a man, although none of them looked they had, or were about to, chow down – which Angel took as a bonus, all things considered.  A second man was hovering uncertainly in an open doorway, plainly trying to decide what to do.  So far, from Angel's point of view, he'd done the smart thing and stayed put.

As Wesley hit the brakes, Angel was already leaping out of the car; he'd had many years to perfect the art of thinking on the move, and he trusted Wesley to respond to whatever plan he came up with.  His first priority was to get the vampires' victim away from them – preferably unharmed - and to do that, he would make best use of the obvious surprise their arrival had caused. 

He leapt, thrusting the stake forward in a perfectly calculated trajectory, and the vampire holding the man disintegrated into a cloud of dust.  Abruptly freed, the man stumbled and fell backwards.  Angel caught a glimpse of his face; he looked like he was caught in a bad dream, too shocked and disorientated to cry out.  That was all Angel had time to see because the biggest, ugliest looking of the vampires was now directly facing him, snarling with an "I'm going to tear you apart" look on his face, and Angel was never slow to respond to invitations like that.  He leapt over the man's prone body, trusting to Wesley to get him out of the way, and launched an attack.  This one was going to be tough; he vamped out automatically.  He could fight in human form, but in vampire shape he had an extra edge – and he felt that wouldn't go amiss right now.

"Get into the house!  And stay there – both of you!"  Wesley's voice rang out, clear and urgent. " _Go_!"

Angel didn't have time to see if this order was obeyed, but he assumed it was.  Trading punches that would've knocked the living daylights out of a mortal, he and the vampire were heavily involved in testing each other and looking for weaknesses.  Out of the corner of his eye Angel caught a glimpse of a third vamp creeping up on his left, and kicked out violently, one foot catching the creature under the chin.  It collapsed, momentarily stunned, and was summarily dispatched into dust as Wesley stepped forward to do the honours.

Then Angel's attention was fully absorbed with avoiding his chief opponent's attempt to flatten him against the hood of his car.  He thrust free, pivoted, caught the vamp off balance and staked him all in of a series movements so fluid they flowed into each other like water.  It was a perfect moment, each individual action meshing and synchronising to create something greater, something unstoppable.  It still gave Angel a rush every time it happened.

Then he was forced to leap back to safety as a car powered past him.  Vampire number four, making his escape?  Perfect moments, alas, were just that: moments. 

"Sorry." Wesley was breathing hard as he ran up to Angel.  "I couldn’t get to him – seems like he wasn't in the mood for fighting."

"He cut and run?"  Angel's features morphed abruptly back into human, and he frowned.  That wasn't typical vampire behaviour – unless the vampires in question were reporting to someone else.  Which begged the question: who?

"At least we got here in time.  I think he's okay, just shaken up."  Wesley jerked his head towards the doorway where the two men had taken refuge from the fighting.  "We'll just calm them down, shall we?  Give them the usual 'it-was-a-bad-nightmare-you'll-soon-get-over-it' spiel." 

"Not this time, Wes.  Normally vampires kill their victims.  These ones looked more like they were demanding money with menaces." 

"Ah," said Wesley, thoughtfully. "Good point."

They walked over to the doorway, Angel feeling awkward now that the action was over.  Sometimes he thought that actually killing the vampires, demons, whatever, was the easy part: it was the explanations afterwards that were hardest to master. 

The man they'd rescued still looked badly shaken and dazed – either by the experience of seeing vampires, or having them turn to dust in front of his eyes – and both he and his younger companion appeared more than a little wary of Angel himself: Angel suspected they might have caught a glimpse of his vamp self as he fought.  His conspicuously human appearance now, though, seemed to relax them, and he hoped that they were passing off his transformation as just their imagination playing tricks on them when they were already freaked out. 

"I think we need to talk," he said without preamble.  "Can we come in?"

"Talk?" The older man stared at him, his eyes still a little glassy.  "I don't need to talk.  I need a drink." He dropped his gaze, turned and made his way inside the house.

The younger man hesitated a moment, then made a decision – no doubt based on the undeniable fact that Wesley and Angel had just rescued his friend.  "Please, come inside."

Wesley and Angel accepted the invitation, and were directed through a hall and into a large room that was clearly being used as a study; it looked comfortable and well lived-in to the extent of being almost untidy.  One wall was shelved, and stacks of books that wouldn't fit on the shelves were heaped on the floor.  Several framed gold and platinum discs, along with a few posters for concerts and rock stars from the 1970s, decorated the dark blue walls.  In one corner a large desk was home to a computer, a pair of glasses balanced precariously on top of a jumbled pile of papers. 

Slumped on a comfy-looking couch, the older man was partaking of Jack Daniels without the benefit of a glass.  Angel could see now that the man had more years on him than had at first appeared; his collar-length brown hair didn't just have bleached highlights but was greying in places.  Casually dressed in decent quality but well-worn black clothing, it appeared he'd found a look he liked and had no intention of altering it for the fickle dictates of fashion.  He glanced up at them as they come in.  "What the fuck was all that about?  Who the hell are you guys anyway?"

"I'm Angel.  This is Wesley.  From Angel Investigations."  So maybe it wasn't the most sparkling introduction ever, but Angel was no good at this sort of thing. 

"We help people with problems like yours," Wesley explained, obviously feeling that Angel's explanation of their presence lacked a little something. 

"Problems like ours?" the other man queried, and this time Angel detected the trace of an English accent in his voice; apparently he was another ex-pat.  He looked to be about ten years younger than his companion, his hair cut short and still dark, his neat, slightly conservative clothing lending him the faint air of an academic.  "So encounters with creatures like ... _those_ happen frequently in your line of work, do they?"

"Jesus, what _was_ that thing?  It changed right in front of my eyes!  And then it vanished when you ... I must've been hallucinating, maybe the shit I took all those years ago was –"

"You weren't hallucinating," Wesley cut in, not without sympathy.  "And I'm afraid it was nothing to do with drugs."

"The creatures who attacked you were vampires," Angel said.  He knew Wesley wished he wouldn't be so blunt, but experience had taught him that there really wasn't a good way to deliver this information.  No matter how gently he broke the news, he'd found that some people reacted badly to the knowledge of the shadow world that existed alongside their own.

" _Vampires_?  Are you two yanking my chain or what?"

Angel sighed.  And then again, some preferred to deny the knowledge completely.  The Sunnydale Syndrome, he privately dubbed it.  Depending on the situation, sometimes it was a helpful attitude, and sometimes not.  In this instance, he rather suspected it would be the latter.

"It was fortunate that neither of you asked them to come inside," Wesley said.  "Vampires can't enter a home without an invitation.  If you _had_ issued one, well ..." He left his thoughts unfinished, as if presuming that the two men would follow them to a logical conclusion.

"Vampires.  I see."  The younger man didn't look quite as sceptical as his friend, Angel noted with relief. 

"Hey, don't tell me you're actually buying into all this crap?" 

"Have you got a better explanation?" The younger man crossed over from the door and rested one hand briefly on the shoulder of his more strung-out companion.  "You know what you saw, Curt.  Don't go into denial just because it doesn't fit your world view."

"It fits yours, I take it?"  Wesley commented, staring curiously at the posters around the room.

"A while back I found myself looking into a few cases your average journalist wouldn't bother with – it was oddly compulsive."  He gave a crooked smile.  "Since then, I've had the impression that there are things going on which the average person knows nothing about."

Curt made a noise of disgust.  "Your trouble is you think we're living in the X-Files instead of the real world."

"You're Curt Wild," Wesley said suddenly, staring at a poster of a young man wearing tight silver trousers, smudged charcoal eyeliner and very little else.  The shot had probably been taken during a concert, the performer frozen for eternity in the midst of wild gyrations, a mane of bleached blond hair whipping across his face and naked torso.

Angel recalled the name from the 1970s rock scene and, glancing back at the man slumped on the couch, he saw the similarities just as Wesley had done.  Wild hadn't altered greatly; if anything, he was leaner-looking than might have been expected which Angel figured was either the result of a good fitness regime in later life, or of simply giving up the overindulgence of the rock and roll era in favour of a more balanced approach to living.  Although if the consumption of the contents of the bottle of Jack Daniels was anything to go by, in times of stress Wild by no means shunned all the old excesses. 

The 1970s.  Angel remembered the decade.  Had he still been a soulless vampire he'd have no doubt found that the immoderation of the glam rock movement provided a fertile hunting ground; indeed, he knew several vampires and demons had used it as just that. As it was he'd drifted past it as he'd drifted past so much – unable to be part of it, condemned to walk alone.  It had been, he recalled, like a huge party to which he hadn't been invited.  Out in the cold and the dark, the glamour and the glitter had seemed to mock him; the more so because he knew that Angelus would've been in his element in such a hedonistic world where every excess was the norm. 

"Yeah, I'm Curt Wild."  This was said almost defensively as he lifted his head and watched them warily, clearly wondering whether this revelation would mean that their interest in him was now forfeit.  Angel understood that; given Wild's history there would be a certain number of Americans all too willing to brand him a shameless corrupter of the nation's morals and respond accordingly.  

"Arthur Stuart," the other man introduced himself, a little self-consciously.

"Ah yes," Wesley returned immediately.  "The journalist who broke the Brian Slade – Tommy Stone scandal.  The scandal that toppled President Reynolds' administration when his voters found out that the squeaky clean pop star Tommy Stone who'd so publicly endorsed him was actually none other than 1970s gay pop icon Brian Slade with a face lift.  1984, wasn't it?"

"Nice memory for details, Wes," Angel commented, trying to figure out how old Wesley would've been back then.  Old enough to take a keen interest in politics?

"Yes, well, my father made rather a song and dance about it at the time which served to fix it in my memory.  He was very vocal about ... well, about a lot of things as it happened."  Wesley paused for a moment, suddenly awkward.  "Anyway, that's all in the past."

"So is the Slade-Stone scandal, but I'm still getting royalties on the book I wrote about it," Arthur said wryly.  He sat down next to Curt, covering his hand with his own, and gently but firmly removed the bottle and placed it out of reach.  Curt relaxed slightly, one thigh pressed against Arthur's as he sought a comforting intimacy he was obviously confident of receiving.  Angel wasn't slow to pick up on the nuances.

The investigative journalist and the ex-rock star.  Well, Angel had come across odder liaisons in his time.  Hell, he'd been part of them.  He shook off his memories with the ease of long practise as Arthur addressed him.

"You said you helped people like us.  So how do you do that?"

"We're private investigators.  We investigate.  Privately."  Angel considered that this summed it up nicely.

"Those vampires appeared to be after something." Wesley had turned away from his study of the posters and was frowning.  "Did they say anything to you, Mr. Wild?"

"Those guys?"  Curt's correction of Wesley's terminology appeared unconscious.  "They said they wanted a green jewel."

"Do you know what they were talking about?" Angel asked.

"Yeah, I know, but I don't have it anymore.  I gave it to Arthur."  The two men turned their heads a fraction to meet each other's eyes, their expressions momentarily unguarded and openly affectionate.  The jewel had been some sort of lover's gift, Angel imagined.

Wesley cleared his throat. "Do you have the jewel in the house?"

Arthur nodded.

"Then get it," Angel instructed, reaching a decision.  "I think it's best if we continue this discussion back at the office."

"Why not here?"  Curt challenged. 

"Because it'll be safer at the office," Angel told him.  "One of the vampires got away.  He may well be back with reinforcements – the sort that don't need an invitation before they can enter your house."

"You know, when he puts it like that it's most persuasive." Arthur got to his feet and headed for the door.  Curt's voice stopped him

"Are you sure about this?" 

"What?  Trusting our lives to two men we've only just met?"  Arthur looked back at him, and smiled slightly.  "They've already saved your life, remember?  I think we should listen to them."

Curt sighed.  "Okay.  Let's do it.  Go get the pin."

 _To be continued._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: This story has a dark, angst-ridden portrayal of Brian Slade, which might not be to everyone's taste.

No one spoke on the journey to Angel's offices.  Arthur thought it likely that both Angel and Wesley had decided in some unspoken accord to give their new clients time to absorb everything that had happened.  This was fine by Arthur.  Once he'd made certain that Curt was unhurt he'd been eager to hear more, but he knew full well that Curt didn't share his excitement; Curt was on information overload right now and the last thing he needed were fresh revelations to deal with.

Curt was sitting hunched and silent, tension vibrating through him like the plucked string of a guitar.  His fingers seemed to be trying to tie themselves in knots, and Arthur guessed that if it hadn't been for the fact that Curt had given up smoking a few years ago after his throat cancer scare then he'd have been lighting up one cigarette after another in an attempt to calm himself.  Arthur understood that; it had been Curt, after all, who'd actually been attacked by the vampires.  But he wished Curt would speak, would say something – _anything_.  Arthur knew full well that it wasn't Angel and Wesley's presence inhibiting Curt: if he had something to say, he didn't let an audience faze him.  His silence now was a choice, was yet another of his almost bewildering array of strategies for dealing with the shit life threw at him. 

Right now Arthur had an uneasy suspicion that Curt was doing more than just brooding over what had happened: he was actively trying to rearrange those facts he couldn't conveniently dismiss into something he felt he could handle, adjusting the pieces to fit a world view of his own devising.  Too many pieces, too oddly shaped to mesh together, and the whole jigsaw would begin to fall apart, taking Curt with it.  Arthur didn't want to be the one to trigger that collapse, so he matched Curt's silence with his own and stared out of the window at the busy evening streets.

They'd taken Angel's car, and Wesley negotiated quickly and carefully through the hectic traffic in a way suggesting that, in spite of his English origins, he now knew the streets of LA with a fair degree of intimacy.  Angel Investigations turned out to be in an old building located in an unfashionable district of the city.  They left the car outside and followed Angel up the wide front steps of the grubby white portico.  Once inside, a short flight of stairs took them down to Angel's office. 

Following him inside, Arthur saw an unremarkable utilitarian office.  Nothing about it suggested that Angel Investigations was a well-heeled establishment, but it did at least look fairly organized and workmanlike.  Curt visibly relaxed as he stared around. Arthur wondered what he'd been expecting: a strong smell of incense and a pentacle inscribed on the floor?

With all the self-assurance of a cat, an attractive young woman uncurled herself from a couch.  She yawned and stretched her arms over her head, displaying her shapely body to best advantage – blithely unaware that it was wasted effort as far as Curt and Arthur were concerned.  Then she raked her hands through dishevelled long dark hair in an effort to tidy it, eyeing the newcomers with undisguised interest. 

"I thought it would be more than just a dust and go operation," she said mysteriously.

"I'll go and get what I need to take a proper look at that jewel," Wesley said, and disappeared into an interior office, leaving Angel to make the introductions – which he did after a short embarrassed silence during which everyone just stared at each other and waited.

"Er, this is Cordelia.  Cordelia – this is Arthur Stuart, and Curt Wild."

"Hey, did you say Curt Wild?" Cordelia's eyes widened, her face becoming more animated by the second.  "I've heard of you!  You were a rock star and you had a thing with Brian Slade!"

"Yeah, right."  Now it was Curt's turn to look awkward.  Arthur's lips twitched as he suppressed a smile: he guessed that when it came down to it that was a pretty succinct description of Curt's life and times. 

"My father has all your records  ... that is, he _had_ all your records till the IRS moved in.  He really liked you.  I mean, he liked your music, not liked you in any other sort of way, of course, because he liked girls and he got married to my mom and everything.  You look a lot like you did back then, only older."

"Can I see the jewel?" Angel asked, as Cordelia seemed to run out of breath. 

Curt looked grateful for the interruption, and Angel gave him a look of sympathy suggesting he was fully aware that Cordelia's thought processes could have a draining effect on the unwary.  Yet for all that, Arthur didn't get the impression that Cordelia was an idiot.  Her stream-of-consciousness style of speaking was disconcerting, certainly, but Arthur suspected that this was because she was actually saying things other people only thought. 

"The jewel?" Angel repeated.

"Oh, right.  Sorry."  Arthur dug in his pockets for the pin and handed it across to Angel.  He'd had it so long that he'd almost stopped looking at it properly.  He paid more attention now, trying to see it through Angel's eyes.

The jewel was in a gold setting; the pin on the back was a later attachment.  The actual stone was oval in shape and sparkling green in colour; under the lights, the heart seemed to glow with a distinctive shade all its own.

"Pretty," said Cordelia, peering into Angel's hand with unabashed curiosity.  "What's it worth?"

Arthur shrugged, slightly apologetically. "I don't know. I've never had it valued. I just wear it as a tie pin now and then."

"May I have it, please?" Wesley had reappeared behind them.  He held out his hand.  Angel passed the pin to him, and Wesley bore his trophy away for closer study.  The desk was now cluttered with a variety of apparatus he'd brought in.  Arthur studied them curiously but the only object he recognized with any degree of certainty was a microscope. 

"Don't worry," Wesley said reassuringly. "I won't damage the pin in any way."  He'd obviously mistaken Arthur's interest as concern about the safety of his property. 

"It's a personal gift," Curt said.  "Why would anyone want to steal it?"

"That's what we've got to find out." Angel leaned back against the desk and gestured at Curt and Arthur to take a seat on the couch next to Cordelia.  "You say you gave the stone to Arthur.  What do you actually know about its provenance?"

"Brian Slade gave the pin to me," Curt said.  "He told me it had once belonged to Oscar Wilde, but that was a load of romantic crap: I got to know the original owner later on, and he put me right.  Seems the story about him finding it in a gutter, and the stone previously belonging to Oscar Wilde, was something he made up when someone got nosy. And later on this someone married Brian."

"So who was the original owner?"  Angel prompted.

 _Curt couldn't see the stars._

 _They should have glittered above him like sequins scattered on dark velvet, but the harsh city lights of West Berlin obliterated them from his sight.  When he looked up all he saw were tall buildings reaching into the sky, black blemishes against the tainted night.  And when he looked down again all he saw were shadows moving on desolate streets._

 _People passed him by like ghosts, and most of them left only fleeting impressions on his mind.  He was isolated from them, all alone in the night, because this was the way Brian had left him.  Oh yes, Curt was the one who'd walked out on Brian, the one who'd taken the final step, but Brian had already moved on and abandoned him long before that day in the recording studio.  The last light died then, but the darkness had been gathering for a long time._

 _The spark of Curt's lighter flared and burned briefly, and the acrid stink of the cigarette was comforting.  He drew on it, and felt a stab of relief as the nicotine hit his bloodstream.  He'd chain-smoked since he quit on Brian, needing something to dull the pain, and knowing that there'd come a time when the nicotine wasn't enough and other, darker opiates would beckon.  He knew how close he walked to that edge; the abyss had opened up under him so many times that he could sense exactly where it was._

 _So he walked, and waited.  But walking brought him no nearer a way forward, and no further away from what lay behind.  And he didn't know what he waited for.  Before long it would begin not to matter, and then he'd start that poisonously seductive descent into a hell he knew all too well - because there would come a time when even the old hell would be preferable to the new one._

 _He looked up then, and saw that he was being observed.  Rent boys, waiting for trade, watched him with dead, empty eyes and Curt felt a flutter of recognition deep in his gut.  It triggered an almost smile on his face, a look of bitter understanding.  Was he so very different from them?  He'd whored not just his body, but also his talents for Brian's benefit.  And what payment had he been given for services rendered?  Nothing.  He'd have done better to walk the streets like the rest of them.  It would have been more honest._

 _When a silver Mercedes slowed as it drove past, Curt wondered if someone was eyeing him up along with the local talent, and he was briefly amused by the idea given the direction his thoughts had taken.  Then the car pulled up just in front of him, and Curt hesitated, suddenly unsure.  It seemed as if someone really was trying to pick him up.  Uncertainly he stepped forward as the passenger window was wound down._

 _And then he recognised the face smiling up at him in coquettish invitation._

 

"So this was the jewel's original owner?"  Angel asked when Curt abruptly fell silent again, his eyes abstracted.  Angel could have done with more hard information and less introspection, but while Curt was being cooperative rather than antagonistic Angel felt it was better to let him talk at his own pace.  "Who was he?"

"What?"  Curt refocused his gaze on Angel.  "Oh, right.  He was Jack Fairy. He was in West Berlin to put together a record, although why he was in that particular street acting like he expected to find me there I don't know.  When I did get around to asking he just smiled.  He had that way of smiling.  A way that seemed to answer your question, even when it didn't, so you just stopped asking."

"I see," Cordelia said, her face reflecting the exact opposite.  Then she frowned. "Jack Fairy.  Wait a minute!  You had a thing with him, too!"

"For a few weeks back in '74, yes." Curt acknowledged this readily enough.  From Arthur's lack of reaction Angel surmised that it was no revelation to him.  "We also cut a record together."

"My father had that one in his record collection," Cordelia reminisced.  "He always said it marked the beginning of your come-back.  He didn't really like most of the stuff you did with Brian Slade.  Felt it compromised your artistic integrity.  Or something."

"He got that right."  Curt's comment could have sounded bitter, but instead it came across as rueful, as if he still had regrets for things that couldn't be changed.  "At the end Brian wasn't really interested in artistic integrity.  It took me a while to figure that out, but Jack made me see it more clearly – and helped me realise what really mattered.  I owe him for that."

"Cordelia, see what you can find out on the Internet about Jack Fairy," Angel requested.

"I doubt you'll find anything," Arthur warned him. "At least not anything useful.  I'm speaking from experience here.  When I wrote a book on the movers and shakers behind the Glam Rock scene it soon became apparent that the one person I really needed to track down was Jack Fairy.  He wasn't one of the biggest stars as far as the public gaze went, but within the business itself he had an almost legendary status: everyone I spoke to knew him as the first of his kind, the one who inspired others.  It was almost as if he was Glam Rock personified. So naturally I tried to find him."

"And?" Angel asked.

"And I failed dismally," Arthur admitted.  "Take it from me, the Internet was a dead end as far as discovering any useful information about Fairy's background – let alone his current whereabouts."  He gave a rueful smile.  "After my success at tracking down Brian Slade, I'm afraid I took my failure with Jack Fairy rather badly.  My ego was bruised."

"Oh yeah.  Needed a lot of tender, loving care to soothe the pain, as I remember." Curt's unexpected grin indicated that he'd supplied that tender loving care, and strongly suggested that most of it had taken place between the sheets. 

"Give the Internet a try anyway, " Angel told her.  The office computer used search engines that were probably a good deal more esoteric than anything Arthur had access to.  Cordelia might strike lucky and hit on some useful information.  It was worth a shot.

"You're the boss." Cordelia tucked her hair neatly behind her ears and went over to the computer, becoming the epitome of brisk efficiency.  Angel never ceased to be amazed at how well Cordelia could play a role – apart from when she was actually on stage, of course.  Wesley had swamped the entire desk with his scientific paraphernalia, and he frowned reprovingly at her as she shifted a pile of papers off the keyboard.  She ignored him. 

"Let's see, he spelled his name 'fairy' as in little gossamer-winged creatures, didn't he?" Cordelia fluttered her hands expressively and waited for enlightenment.  Wesley's face took on a pained expression, and in response Cordelia affected a look of hurt innocence.  "Hey, if I'm going to look this guy up I need to know the correct spelling."

"Like in fairy stories, yeah," Curt acknowledged, and a slight smile appeared on his face.  It was a wistful smile and also a strangely sweet one, Angel thought; it softened Curt's features but also added to his air of vulnerability. 

"Are you still in contact with Fairy?"  Angel asked.

Curt shook his head.  "No.  We sort of drifted apart after a few months together.  I don't remember either of us actually saying it was over; we just went our separate ways.  We got on each other's nerves too much for a serious relationship to be a possibility."

 

 _Silky sheets slid against his naked skin as he stirred, but at first all Curt felt was the light press of warm lips against his own.  Glossy with lipstick, the mouth was gently insisting that it was time for him to stop sleeping._

 _This was a better wake-up call than any he'd had for a long time.  Almost Curt could imagine it was Brian kissing him awake.  Almost.  But when he raised a sleepy hand to caress the head bowed over his, he found himself stroking not Brian's spiky locks but a short sleek fall of hair.  No, this wasn't Brian.  This was Jack._

 _Curt had been more than half convinced that Jack had only picked him up for some sort of pity fuck, but in the end he simply hadn't cared.  All he'd wanted was to wrap himself around a warm, human body and try to thaw the cold ache inside him. An act of wild desperation, perhaps, but it seemed to have worked.  For the first time the pain of losing Brian actually felt bearable._

 _As the kiss ended, Curt opened his eyes.  Jack was smiling down at him, his expression faintly quizzical as if he was trying to determine Curt's frame of mind this morning.  A little awkwardly Curt returned the smile and then relaxed, content for the moment to do nothing beyond lie in the rumpled bed and stare around with idle curiosity._

 _He hadn't paid much attention to the room the previous night; all he'd wanted to do was shrug off his clothes and fall on the soft bed in Jack's arms.  Now he half-smiled.  In all its shabby splendour the room was so very Jack.  It could have been a starlet's bedroom, tastefully elegant in shades of grey and deep crimson, heavy velvet drapes half drawn from the window.  A starlet who'd fallen on hard times, though, for the sun slanting a beam of light between the drapes revealed them to be threadbare along the folds, and the paint on the gilded bed head was peeling in places._

 _Jack had been awake long enough to apply make-up, Curt noted, although the long rose-silk wrap he wore indicated he hadn't yet dressed.  He'd begun picking up Curt's discarded clothes from where they lay scattered about the room, and was doing it so deliberately that Curt was in no doubt that a point was being made about his untidiness. He twitched his lips in mild amusement as he watched Jack trying to make order out of chaos.  No one had ever tidied up for him before – not unless he'd paid them to, anyway.  Brian had been as much of a slob as he had, showing little inclination to fuss over Curt's domestic shortcomings._

 _His lips pursed in fond disapproval, Jack plucked Curt's jacket off the floor.  As he dangled it from one hand, something fell out of the pocket and rolled across the carpet.  Jack quickly retrieved it and held it up to the light between his forefinger and thumb.  Curt recognised it then as the green-jewel pin given to him by Brian._

 _Jack stared at the jewel for a few long seconds, and then looked across at Curt, a mildly interrogative expression in his eyes._

"I told Jack that Brian had given me the pin.  And Jack told me the jewel was actually his, and that Brian had stolen it from him.  Brian hadn't mentioned that, of course." Curt's brief smile was ironic, his expression pensive.  "He just said that it was special, and he wanted me to have it because he loved me."

"Fairies," Cordelia muttered from behind the computer.  Everyone turned and looked in her direction, and Arthur was sure he wasn't the only one holding his breath for what she'd say next.  "Fairy tales, fairy clip art, fairy lore ..." she continued, apparently oblivious to the attention directed her way.  Everyone visibly relaxed.

"I wanted to return the pin, seeing as it wasn't Brian's to give away in the first place," Curt continued after a pause, "but Jack wouldn't take it back.  He gave one of those smiles and said that he wanted me to keep it, this time as a gift from him." 

"Mandy said everyone stole from Jack," Arthur put in reflectively, thinking back to his interview with her – what was it now? – fifteen years ago. 

"What?  You mean they were always taking his jewellery and money?" Cordelia looked up from the computer, momentarily diverted by this information.

"No," Arthur smiled at her understandable confusion, and clarified his statement.  "Mandy didn't mean it like that.  Mandy, by the way, was Brian's wife," he explained for the benefit of Angel Investigations,  "When Mandy said everyone stole from Jack, she meant they stole his ideas because he was truly the first of his kind, a true original."

This time it was Wesley who was diverted by the information, sufficiently so that he looked up from his work and frowned as if Arthur's comments might have some deeper significance.  Arthur racked his brains to think what this might be, but couldn't come up with anything.

"Trust Brian to take it one step further." Curt observed wryly. 

"Ah!" Cordelia exclaimed, her attention back on the monitor.  "This is Fairy, isn't it?  Tall, thin guy with red hair wearing a dress?"

"That would be him," Curt confirmed with a small smile.  "Although that description doesn't _quite_ do him justice."

"It makes me want to spit!" Cordelia exclaimed, frowning fiercely.  Arthur winced as Curt's smile vanished and he opened his mouth to make an angry retort, but Cordelia sailed on in full flow, "Such poise and style and elegance!  And, dammit, he's a _man_!  Why can't _I_ look like that?  It's not fair!"

"Cordelia," Wesley said repressively.  "You're supposed to be finding his biography, not taking a tour of the photo galleries." 

"This is an old fan site.  It hasn't actually got a biography but it's full of old publicity photos ... oh, that leather coat!  It's simply to die for!  And that hat!"

"Thank you, Cordelia," Angel said quickly, obviously intent on deflecting her before she could go on to rave over Jack Fairy's entire wardrobe.  He turned his head and took a quick glance at the monitor, as if to fix Jack's appearance in his mind, before cocking his head towards Wesley.  "How are you doing with the pin, Wes?"

"I've eliminated several possibilities.  In fact, I'd go so far as to say I've eliminated pretty much all of the mundane ones ... In spite of appearances, this stone is not an emerald, nor is the setting gold."  Wesley put the magnifier down on the table and looked across at Arthur.  "Mr. Stuart, you say you needed information on Jack Fairy for a book you were writing.  If the Internet was a dead end, might I ask how you _did_ research his background?"

"And what exactly you found out," Angel added.

"I started with what I knew – which was that his final performance was at the Death of Glitter concert, the farewell to Glam Rock, in 1974.  Curt had told me the whole thing was Jack Fairy's idea, and that he was quite open about it being his last show because it was now time to move on.  He gave the era quite a send-off as I recall." 

"You were there?" Angel asked.

"Oh yes, I was there.  I was just a gawky fanboy back then, caught up in all the excitement ... " Arthur was always unsure if he felt relieved that those days were well behind him, or sorry that he'd lost the wide-eyed eagerness he'd possessed back then.  Of course, he'd been an awkward, graceless lump compared to the beautiful rockers he'd adored, but even if his passion had been worn on his sleeve so openly that it was painful to recall at least he'd finally had the guts to be honest about his sexuality, rather than hiding it as he'd done during the late seventies and early eighties.  With Curt he felt he'd finally achieved a kind of moderation; he didn't flaunt his sexual orientation, but neither did he try to conceal it. 

Belatedly realising that Angel was regarding him expectantly, Arthur resumed his narrative. "Jack Fairy's was the last act.  I know this is going to sound crazy, but it's almost like he was singing the whole Glam Rock scene out of existence."

"Oh sure, like everyone just stopped making the music from that point forward."  Curt had never agreed with Arthur about this, but then obviously Curt's take on the era was quite different to Arthur's.

"The records were made all right, but it was as if the heart had gone," Arthur explained – for the benefit of Angel and the others, not in any hope of changing Curt's opinions.

"The heart went out of it when Brian pulled that stupid stunt and pretended he'd been shot on stage," Curt argued.

"That was the _beginning_ of the end," Arthur qualified.  "And Jack was around for that, too.  When my friends and I ran by on our way to the concert, he was walking down the street and someone bumped into him.  It was really weird.  He didn't stop or turn around, he didn't acknowledge us in any way, but _we_ all stopped and turned and looked at _him_.  I don't know why.  I don't think half of them even knew who he was.  And I know this is going to sound crazy, but for a moment I actually thought it was Jack who'd shot Brian on stage.  It came out later that it was just some actor hired as part of the publicity stunt, but I always wondered why Brian had him dress up like Jack."

"Second-guessing Brian was always a dumb activity.  He was so screwed up back then, who knows why he did half the shit he did." Curt's voice was matter-of-fact.  It had been twenty-five years since he'd split with Brian, after all.  These days he tended to regard Brian's antics with either dispassion or amusement; only occasionally did the memories trigger a wistful regret.

"On that point we are most certainly in agreement," Arthur conceded.

"Let's get back to the Death of Glitter Concert." Angel redirected the conversation back onto more productive lines.  "What happened after Jack Fairy gave his farewell performance?"

Arthur and Curt couldn't help exchanging involuntary grins at Angel's question – obviously asked in all innocence – and Arthur wondered how on earth he could sum up the sweet passion of that first time with Curt, an encounter so intense it had coloured his life from that moment on, even when he'd tried to deny it: "I got laid" just didn't seem to cover it somehow.  Angel looked completely bemused for a moment before he figured it out.  Then he sighed – without any indication of embarrassment – and rephrased his question.  "I meant, what happened to Jack Fairy."

"I found out that he attended a couple of parties afterwards.  Then he said he was going away.  To the best of my knowledge, no one ever saw him again.  In fact, he disappeared more thoroughly than Brian did."

"Was Jack Fairy his given name, or one he assumed?" Wesley asked.

"It was a stage name.  It was fairly common knowledge that he was John Robertson, and had been born in London in October 1944. These were the details on his passport, and he used them for all legal purposes.  But when I began researching his background I found that the only John Robertson born on the relevant date in London had been killed, along with his parents, by a V2 rocket when he was three weeks old."

"So Jack Fairy managed either to obtain or a forge a copy of this dead child's birth certificate and used that to build a fake identity within a fake identity," Wesley observed.  "Interesting."

"Not as far as my book went," said Arthur.  "I'd run up against a dead end.  All that I was able to confirm about his past history was Mandy's information - that he'd come to London in the 1960's and started performing on the club circuit."

Cordelia frowned.  "What do you mean he came _to_ London?  I thought you just said his cover story had him being born _in_ London?"

"Yes," Arthur confirmed. "But Jack's story was that he hadn't grown up there.  He'd a reputation for being more than happy to talk about his art in interviews, but being uncomfortable if anyone asked him about his past.  Even the most in-depth interview he gave actually reveals very little.  He said he'd had an unsettled childhood because his family was forever moving around the country, that it hadn't been a happy time and he preferred not to talk about it."

"So the question remains: who was Jack Fairy?"  Angel looked across at Wesley expectantly.  "Any theories yet?"

Wesley put down the pin and regarded them all with the self-important air of a magician about to produce a rabbit out of a hat.  "I'm satisfied now that this gemstone and its setting are made from materials not of our dimension.  And I'm beginning to think that the elusive Jack really _was_ a fairy."

"You call _that_ a theory?"  Curt said, his jaw dropping open in disbelief.  "Jesus!"

"That's fairy as in Sidhe – pronounced 'she' but spelt S-I-D-H-E." Wesley informed them.  Curt looked none the wiser, but Arthur's mind rapidly made connections.

"In Celtic folklore many of the fairy races were of human height and even taller," he said. "And they were known for their magic ability to weave glamour and illusion."

"There's more than one race of Sidhe, of course," Wesley said, apparently determined not to be outdone when it came acting as a fount of knowledge.  "They all love beauty, poetry and music, but there's one race that seems to have a particular fascination with the arts, and every so often an individual will cross over to our realm to work their magic, inspiring cultural innovations.  To the best of my knowledge, no-one's ever discovered why they want to do this."  He looked at Angel, who shrugged as if to say he had no idea either.  "We know, for instance, that one was around during the Georgian period in England."

"So," said Cordelia thoughtfully.  "Let me see if I've got this straight: you're saying these fairies pop over to our dimension, change the fashion, music and art for their own amusement ... and nobody does anything about it?"

"They don't influence every trend, so it would be very difficult to track them down," Wesley said. "And, as you're well aware, we all have far more serious things to deal with than hunt down beings whose sole purpose appears to be to encourage impressionable teenagers to wear platform shoes and glitter make-up,"

Arthur wasn't going to let Wesley get away with such a pretentious and inaccurate statement.  "Speaking as someone who _was_ an impressionable teenager at the time, I can assure you that we viewed it quite differently.  It wasn't all about wearing platform shoes and glitter make-up: it was about self-expression, the freedom to be who you really are."

Wesley's pomposity deflated visibly like a punctured balloon.  "Ah, yes.  When you put it like that, it does seem rather more significant than I might have ..."

"Now wait just a moment!" Curt interrupted.  "I lived with Jack for a couple of months, remember?  And I know damn well that he was as human as anyone else!"

"You mean he snored and his feet smelt?" Cordelia pulled a face.  "Eww!  I _so_ did not need to know that."

"Well, he'd have to pass for human," Wesley pointed out.  "Right down to the finer details.  If you look at it like that, you could say that cheesy feet were part of his magic and illusion."

"This is just ... complete crap!"  Curt propelled himself off the couch, scowling.  "Jack was a human being, not some supernatural creature from another dimension!" 

Arthur watched Curt's increasingly hostile reaction with growing concern.  It was obvious that Curt's carefully crafted version of events, that mishmash of half-truth and outright fabrication, was falling apart under this onslaught of information.  Whilst Arthur viewed its imminent destruction with a tight knot of worry in his gut, a dispassionate part of him wondered if Angel might not be the best person to deal with the fall-out.  After all, this could hardly be the first time Angel had come up against someone's complete denial of the truth, even given the evidence of his or her own eyes; surely he'd have a better idea how to handle such a volatile situation. 

"Curt, I think you should listen to them.  It might not be what you want to hear but, given the facts, it makes sense."

"Makes sense to _you_ , you mean.  Sure it does!   Because it's exactly the sort of thing you _want_ to hear!  But it wasn't an explanation, Arthur; it was just supernatural mumbo jumbo – can't you see that?"

"So who died and made you Scully?" Cordelia demanded vigorously.  "Supernatural equals natural with added spooky bits.  It's real.  Deal with it."

Arthur blinked in surprise at her unexpected vehemence, and Curt seemed briefly stunned by it.  He stared at her in confusion, rendered temporarily speechless.

Angel took advantage of the momentary lull Cordelia had created to force a change of direction. "Wesley, is there any way of contacting these Sidhe?" 

"If you have an object from the Sidhe dimension there is an incantation which will summon the Sidhe who owned it into our realm," Wesley told him.  "Although there's no guarantee that Jack Fairy will answer the summons."

Curt found his voice with a burst of cynical laughter.  "Oh yeah?  Well, that's a _great_ excuse when nothing happens."

Angel ignored him and addressed Wesley.  "Can you perform the incantation?"

Wesley drew himself up, very much on his dignity.  "Of course."  Then he looked a little less certain.  "That is ... I _think_ I can ..."

"Then let's do it."  Angel didn't waste time taking decisions.  Nor did he reach them through a committee, Arthur noted.

"We'd better move ourselves downstairs, I think," Wesley told Angel, frowning as he gave the matter some thought.  "Everything I need is there, and I'll have more space to work."

"An incantation?  You're planning to hold some sort of séance now so you can contact the fairies?  Well, I don't want any part in it."

"Fine," said Angel shortly.  "Then stay here."

"If you really don't believe anything will happen, why are you afraid of joining us?"  Arthur challenged as he got to his feet.  He was suddenly determined that he wasn't going to let Curt take the easy way and opt out of this.  It was time he 'got real', as Cordelia had so succinctly expressed it a few moments ago.

"Who said I was afraid?  Listen, this is _stupid_.  _That's_ why I don't want any part of it."

"Not even so you can sneer and say 'I told you so'?"

Curt's lips thinned into an angry line as he stared at Arthur, obviously considering he'd been manoeuvred into a position from which his pride wouldn't let him make a dignified exit.  "Okay.  You want me to watch nothing happen?  Fine.  I'll watch.  Then we'll see who's right about this."

 

\--------

 

Angel wasn't entirely sure that Curt's antagonistic presence would be conducive to summoning the Sidhe, but when Wesley made no comment he had to assume that it wouldn't be a problem.  So, after a moment's pause during which Wesley failed to voice any objection, Angel led the way down to his apartment. 

Wesley immediately took charge, commandeering Cordelia to help him gather what was needed; Angel was given the job of moving chairs to form a rough circle.  When everything was finally arranged to Wesley's satisfaction he took up a cross-legged position at the edge of the circle, suddenly looking a little awkward and self-conscious now that the moment of truth had arrived.  The others seated themselves with varying degrees of enthusiasm and apprehension.  Curt was sitting nearest the door directly opposite Wesley.  Angel took up a position to Wesley's left; Cordelia and Arthur were on his right. 

Once Wesley was satisfied they were ready he licked his lips nervously.  "Right.  Here goes."  He tipped the contents of various small packets carefully into a burner.  A pungent smell began to fill the air, a thin stream of smoke curling lazily upwards as the items smouldered.  Wesley picked up a book, which he'd already opened at the page he wanted.  Holding it in one hand he began to read from it, the gemstone resting on the outstretched palm of his other hand.  Angel didn't recognise the language, although it seemed to hold Celtic cadences.

The incantation was surprisingly short.  Wesley stopped, put down the book and then stared expectantly at the centre of the circle.

"That it?"  Curt's voice had a ring of amusement in it. 

"That's it," Wesley confirmed, sounding slightly puzzled.  He picked up the book and frowned at the text, and then repeated some of the words under his breath as if double-checking that he'd performed the incantation correctly.

"Well, that was something short of spectacular.  Looks like the fairy is a no show after all.  What a surprise!"

Then the air in the room seemed to shiver, the thread of smoke wavering as if caught in a breeze.  And quite suddenly, between one heartbeat and the next, a figure became visible in the centre of the circle.

The Sidhe appeared directly facing Wesley, and Angel saw a look of pure jubilation light up his colleague's face.  Not only had he correctly identified a mysterious species of supernatural creature, he'd also succeeded in summoning it to their dimension.  Wesley's expression then assumed a slight less thrilled look, trepidation beginning to edge out euphoria; Angel wondered if it had just occurred to him that not having any evidence that this species of Sidhe went around killing humans wasn't actually proof they didn't.

The figure made a turn in Angel's direction, doing so in the highly stylised manner of a performer displaying himself to best advantage before an admiring audience, and Angel saw that it was indeed Jack Fairy.  The lean figure and auburn hair matched the photos Cordelia had come across but when Angel studied the Sidhe more closely he found something strangely unsettling about the features.  It took him a moment or so to figure out what it was: Fairy's face was totally symmetrical, displaying no trace of natural human imperfections.

The Sidhe's clothing was an eclectic mix of styles reflecting several periods of history and gave the distinct impression of having been designed for a woman rather than a man.  At first glance the long trailing sleeves suggested a medieval origin, but a closer inspection revealed that the rest of Fairy's attire was actually blending fashion details from epochs as diverse as Imperial Rome and the 1920s.  Angel didn't share Cordelia's fascination with haute couture, but he was aware that clothing created from such a confusion of influences ought to look a mess.  Yet, as worn by Jack Fairy, the overall effect was somehow both elegant and pleasing to the eye.

Fairy turned again until he was facing Cordelia and Arthur.  What Angel could see of Cordelia's expression suggested that she was both captivated and irritated in equal measure by Jack's poise and elegance.  Angel wondered whether she would think to console herself with the fact that Jack could only look so stunning in such a get-up because he wasn't human.

Arthur's feelings were rather more difficult to sum up.  On one hand Angel could see that he was elated; his belief in things beyond everyday reality had finally been validated beyond all question.  But there was also more than a touch of the starstruck fanboy about Arthur's expression as if, twenty-five years after the Death of Glitter concert, the elusive and inspirational Jack Fairy was beguiling Arthur all over again.

Jack Fairy inclined his head a fraction, as if in silent acknowledgment of the gift of worship Arthur bestowed upon him. 

And then he turned around to face Curt.

 

 _To be continued_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: This story has a dark, angst-ridden portrayal of Brian Slade, which might not be to everyone's taste.

Curt had watched the scene play itself out, his palms sweating and his heart racing in reaction. This was so much worse than the encounter with the freaks in the driveway because this was personal. As viewed from the back, the hair colour and build of the... apparition was distressingly familiar; so, too, was the way the figure moved as it turned to regard the others.

Not real, not happening... 

It was an illusion, and they'd done it with mirrors, or... _something_.  Curt tried to – _needed_ to – rationalise the experience so that he could deal with it on his own terms.  To accept the absolute truth of what he was seeing would mean surrendering control of his own beliefs, and the thought that he might be forced into doing just that was terrifying.

When the... thing finally turned to face him, reality came crashing down. 

There was a faintly puzzled look on its face as it saw Curt, as if it was struggling to place him.  And then it smiled at him in recognition, a familiar smile that it had used before when they'd been lovers.

At the sight of that smile, Curt couldn't pretend any longer that what confronted him was merely an image of Jack, a Jack who hadn't aged at all since Curt had last seen him.  This creature _was_ Jack, because it knew Curt.  Indeed, it had once known him most intimately.

Curt got to his feet.  A terrified part of him was insisting that he got out of there, now, while he still could, but his progress to the stairs was slower than he willed; something about the face – Jack's face – compelled Curt's attention and wouldn't let it go.  In spite of himself, he was almost mesmerized by the being's flawless perfection, the illusion of which, he now realised, was what Brian Slade had embodied all those years ago during his stage performances.  

When someone took hold of Curt, forcing him back against the elevator, he was caught unaware and initially too stunned to react.  The metal doors dug uncomfortably into his back, and then Angel loomed into focus, his expression set and unyielding.  He appeared to move deliberately to cut off Curt's line of vision to Jack, but if Angel was expecting this to have a calming effect then he was sadly disappointed.

Curt felt as if some last vestige of control inside him had snapped and he became blindly frantic, trying to force Angel to release him.  But Angel held him easily, without even appearing to try very hard, and that made Curt more desperate than ever. Angel was saying something to him but Curt couldn't even hear the words, let alone make sense of them.

It was Arthur's voice that finally penetrated the chaotic roar in Curt's mind - not what he was saying, just the fact that he was talking to Angel and trying to calm things down - and he stopped struggling.

"You're only making it worse – can't you see?  Let him go, let him deal with it on his own terms!  Please!"

Angel's eyes stared into Curt's own for a long moment, as if the better to judge the truth of Arthur's words.  Then he nodded slowly and with obvious reluctance.  "All right.  But you –" addressing Curt  "- stay in the office.  Don't leave the building.  And if you see or hear anything suspicious, get back down here at once. Understand?"

"Yeah..." Curt choked out, finding his voice at last.  "Now get the fuck off me!" 

This time Angel responded, slackening his grip.  Curt shoved him back with as much force as he could muster and bolted for the stairs.

 

\--------

 

"Well," said Cordelia into the silence. "That was surreal."

Wesley was also looking a little nonplussed by the turns of events.  "Is that, er, normal behaviour for him?" he asked Arthur, who didn't seem to find Curt's volatile reaction completely unexpected, although he was clearly distressed by it. 

"If Curt feels trapped, it brings back some bad memories and... well, that's not really relevant."  Arthur sighed.  "Let's just say it's not unusual for him to react badly when pushed too hard or too fast."

"It appears to have escaped your notice, but _I_ was actually dealing with the situation before you all took it upon yourselves to intervene." This astringent comment was the Sidhe's contribution to the conversation.  Startled, everybody turned as one to look at him.

"He was terrified of you," Angel said after a short, confused silence.  "That much was obvious." 

"If you'd looked more closely, you'd have seen that he was also fascinated by me," the Sidhe told him, his light and cultured voice taking on a distinct tone of disapproval at Angel's obtuseness.  "Only when you intervened did his fear get the better of him.  As was pointed out, you managed to make matters worse.  And then, indeed, it was best to let him go."

"You see, we've agreed on something," said Cordelia, sounding pleased.  "That's promising."

"You underestimated him, which I suppose is forgivable seeing as Curt has a tendency to underestimate himself," the Sidhe continued, giving Cordelia a faintly puzzled look.  "Curt is a survivor, and you don't survive without being able to adapt and change.  But it is, generally speaking, advisable to lead people gently into new ways of thinking rather than force a confrontation.  You understand that I am, of course, speaking from experience."

"I should go to him." Arthur looked set to act on his words, but the Sidhe waved him back to his seat with a graceful gesture. 

"That would be best done later, I think.  Now that he's so thoroughly unstrung, he'll need time to calm down.  Meanwhile, we clearly have other issues to discuss." He switched his gaze to Wesley. "To begin with, I want to know why you have felt it necessary to summon me. And if this is going to involve a long explanation, I should like to sit down first, if you don't mind."

Without waiting to see if his summoner did, indeed, mind the Sidhe settled himself on Curt's vacated chair, his air suggesting that he was being magnanimous and would, therefore, overlook their neglecting to prepare a seat for him in advance.

"Yes, that's fine. Do make yourself comfortable," said Wesley belatedly. "I'm afraid it might well be a long explanation."

The Sidhe glanced towards the kitchen area. "In that case I should like a coffee - black with no sugar," he announced as he took a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from a belt pouch.

Cordelia winced, a look of horror on her face. "You're not going to _smoke_?" she exclaimed in a tone to match her expression.

"Yes. Do you have any objections?"

"Duh!  Yes!" she retorted. "It's a filthy, disgusting habit."

"Cordelia," said Angel with controlled exasperation. "Just get the coffee."

"And you'd best bring a saucer seeing as we haven't any ash trays," Wesley added helpfully.

Arthur had remained silent during this exchange, looking somewhat bemused as if he couldn't quite believe that Cordelia, faced with an ex-glam rock star from another dimension, would give him a lecture on the perils of smoking. Still, it had at least served to divert him from brooding over Curt's departure.

Cordelia did as she was told with very poor grace. The Sidhe had lit his cigarette by this time so she was able to pull a disapproving face and waft away fumes in a very pointed manner as she passed him.

While she was making the coffee, the Sidhe asked for their names, his manner suggesting that he deemed it vulgar to discuss anything with people who had not yet properly introduced themselves. Wesley obliged and announced everyone's name in turn, his own included. 

When Arthur was introduced, the Sidhe looked a little startled but then gave the journalist a dazzling smile, which strongly suggested that Arthur had just gone up in his estimation.  It was clear that the name meant something to the Sidhe but he didn't offer an explanation and Angel didn't ask for one; it was taking long enough to cut to the chase as it was.  Even so, he couldn't resist asking the Sidhe a little sarcastically, "And how would _you_ prefer to be addressed?" when Wesley had completed the introductions.

The Sidhe responded with a complicated string of syllables, paused for a moment and then added "Or you can call me Jack if you think you will have difficulty in pronouncing my real name."

"We'll use Jack," said Wesley, sounding irritated. "It's far less time consuming than saying..."

He repeated the name flawlessly and the Sidhe pursed his lips. Angel couldn't decide if this meant he was surprised or impressed.

Cordelia chose that moment to return with the coffee and a saucer. Jack took them from her, balancing the saucer on his lap and smiling sweetly at her as he did so.

Wesley held out the jewel on his palm. "We understand that this originally belonged to you."

Jack put the coffee mug down on the floor before taking the stone and staring at it for a moment. His expression suggested that it was evoking memories, some of which were more pleasant than others.

"Yes, it did," he replied quietly. He glanced across at Angel. "But I assume that the vampire with a soul didn't have me summoned here just to return an item of jewellery."

"I didn't realise that my own fame was spread so far and wide," Angel remarked dryly.

"We like to keep a finger on the pulse of the world," Jack replied enigmatically.  "Now _do_ explain what's going on.  I'm _so_ intrigued."

Arthur, clearly shocked by this disclosure of Angel's true nature, finally managed to gasp out, " _Angel's_ a vampire?"

Before anyone else could respond, Jack turned to Arthur.  "You have nothing to fear from Angel," he said calmly.

Angel observed that Arthur seemed reassured by this statement to the extent that the tension visibly drained away from him and he even nodded slightly as if in acceptance of Jack's statement.  It appeared as if the Sidhe was working the same kind of subtle spell he had attempted to use earlier on Curt.  Angel knew that the last thing they needed right now was for Arthur to take fright and run out on them as well so he could hardly view Jack's motives in a sinister light.  All the same, to be made aware that Jack Fairy could wield such power with apparent ease was a little unnerving.

"You asked what was going on," Angel said, pointedly directing attention back to the matter in hand.  "Curt Wild was attacked by vampires demanding he give them that piece of jewellery."

"And somehow I don't think they were fans wanting a souvenir," Wesley murmured.

"We know that you're the original owner of this stone," Angel continued, "and we also know that it's from the Sidhe realm.  So we figured that if anyone could tell us what it's used for and who might want it, you could." 

Jack's expression was troubled but he contented himself with answering Angel's questions rather than voicing his concerns.  "Yes, of course.  I'm sure you're aware that personal items absorb energies from their owners.  Well, this particular stone absorbed some of my Sidhe power.  It's a kind of battery, if you like, although it can be only tapped in your world by someone with Sidhe ancestry.  Because the Sidhe gifts lie dormant for many generations such individuals are few and far between. And even when they do surface they rarely manifest as more than a pale reflection of a pure blood's powers."

"And what kind of powers are they?" enquired Angel.

Jack looked at him as if trying to assess his level of knowledge. "Are you aware of what individuals of my particular race do in your realm?"  When Angel nodded, Jack continued, "Our powers enable us to influence a culture - to innovate fashion, art and music that can shape one or more generations.  Possession of the stone would allow a Sidhe descendent to enhance whatever gifts he or she had inherited. This particular piece of jewellery was stolen from me by someone who was able to draw on its stored power, albeit unknowingly because he was unaware of his heritage.  I let him do this because it served my purpose, although I had certain misgivings at the time."

"You mean Brian Slade, don't you?" Arthur demanded, his eyes sharp with sudden understanding. 

"Yes, I mean Brian Slade." Jack's voice was carefully empty of expression.

"How did letting him steal it serve your purpose?" Wesley asked.

"My people innovate and set trends, but we always select mortals to be in the spotlight.  In the thirteenth century we chose Chretien de Troyes, one of the most famous poets of medieval Europe."

"But why _do_ you come here to set trends?" Wesley asked. "I've always wondered."

"Why not?"  Jack returned equably, and then resumed his narrative as if there'd been no interruption.  "In my case it was even more necessary to have someone else be the star and the focus of all the attention, given that I could not afford to be investigated too closely."

"Because of that false birth certificate," Arthur put in with feeling.

"I'm flattered that the man who revealed the truth about Tommy Stone thought me worthy of investigation," Jack said, with just a trace of amusement.

"How do you know that?"  Arthur looked confused.

"I read your book," Jack told him.  "Actually, I've read all your books.  You had a unique perspective on the Glam Rock era and you created a most eloquent tribute to it; I found your account truly moving."

"Thank you," Arthur said weakly.  The idea that something produced by a mere mortal could be appreciated by an otherworldly being was obviously one that would take some getting used to.

"Anyway, it's precisely because of enquiring minds such as yours that I needed a star to draw the media's interest away from _me_."

"Excuse me," Wesley broke in.  "If you didn't want people to suspect you were a Sidhe, why did you call yourself Jack _Fairy_?  Isn't that a bit of a giveaway?"

Jack laughed.  Then he fluttered his eyelashes and mouthed a kiss at Wesley.  "Not at all.  Everyone assumed that I was making a blatant statement about my inclinations."

"Oh, of course," Wesley muttered, turning an interesting shade of pink as he realised he'd overlooked the obvious. 

"My mistake was made not in choosing Brian, but in letting him choose me against my better judgement," Jack continued.  "I sensed Sidhe blood in his ancestry the first time I saw him, and unconsciously, he recognised _me_ for what I really was.  He wanted what I had."  Jack's hand touched his ear as if he was recalling something but he didn't elaborate.  "The fact that Brian gave the stone to Curt later on was a clear indication that he had no idea what it did."

Something had suddenly occurred to Arthur.  "Brian wouldn't have known that Curt had given the stone to me, though, so when he wanted it back he sent his goons after Curt."

"But why should he suddenly want it back _now_?" Cordelia asked.

Jack held up a hand in a wonderfully theatrical gesture.  "Wait.  This is just speculation.  We don't know that it was Brian behind all this." He stubbed out the remains of his cigarette and put the saucer on the floor.  "I can use the stone to get a rough idea of Brian's whereabouts if he's still alive because his energies will have left an imprint on it too.  This won't be as accurate as if he actually had the stone on his person, of course; in that situation the gem would act like a beacon."

"Kind of like psychometry," put in Cordelia.

"By using psychometry Jack would be able to pick Brian's _past_ from an object he'd owned, not his present location," Wesley corrected her pedantically.

"This will take me a few moments," Jack said.  "And while I'm tuning into Brian's psychic frequency, Arthur should go and check on Curt."

"Right." Arthur stood up hurriedly, flushing faintly.

Observed the shamefaced look on Arthur's face, Angel decided that the journalist must have been too caught up in what was happening to give his partner much thought and that Jack's directive had given him a bad case of guilt.  Still, at least Curt had been provided with plenty of time to calm down.  He might even be slightly more amenable to reason now.

"I'll go with you," Cordelia offered. "So you don't get lost.  You don't know the building."

Angel wondered how Arthur could possibly get lost going up a flight of stairs.  He suspected that Cordelia must have had enough of Jack Fairy for the moment and had come up with this as an excuse to take some time out.  Angel sympathised; he was starting to feel a bit sidelined in his own investigation.  It felt as if Jack had set up court here in the basement, and appointed all lesser beings as attendants to the Sidhe Who Must Be Obeyed.  If this was how he'd behaved in his pop star days, it was hardly surprising that his relationship with someone like Curt hadn't lasted very long.

"Are you sure he's not just dead?" Wesley asked.

Angel guessed from Wesley's tone that he was being deliberately obtuse, and figured that he, too, was more than a little irritated by the Sidhe's imperious manner.

"No," Jack said patiently, in a tone that suggested he felt this was an extremely stupid question.  "That would leave an emptiness, a void in this earthly realm where Brian's presence should be.  What I'm getting is completely different.  I sense that he's here, in Los Angeles, but someone has deliberately erected a barrier so I can't get a precise fix on his location.  This means that he's either now a powerful occultist in his own right, or he's allied with someone who is."

"The vampires who attacked Curt were well-dressed, driving an expensive car, and operating in the LA area," Angel thought aloud. "And now you're saying that Brian Slade could be working with powerful occultists."

"This is all starting to sound horribly familiar," Wesley said gloomily.

"You suspect Wolfram and Hart," Jack stated.

Wesley's jaw dropped.  "How did _you_ know that?"

"Good question," said Angel, suddenly wondering if the Sidhe was as benevolent as he had so far appeared.  "Wolfram and Hart aren't exactly renowned for their interest in art, music and fashion."

"No, but they _are_ renowned for their connection with demons.  As I said earlier, my people like to keep a finger on the pulse of the world."

"All right," said Wesley.  "Let's say Brian Slade _is_ involved somehow with Wolfram and Hart.  What possible use would they have for the stone?"

"Glamour and image can be used for sinister purposes," Jack reminded them.  "And not exclusively by the Sidhe or their descendants either.  It's a universal power that some humans are able to tap into and they can become world religious or political leaders, capable of swaying entire populations.  Nazi Germany illustrates this: Hitler drew on charisma when making speeches, whilst a spell of glamour was woven by the ceremony and spectacle of the Nuremberg Rally.  This was theatre just as much as any Glam Rock concert; only the aims were different."

Wesley frowned, as if he wasn't quite sure about this assertion, but Angel understood what the Sidhe meant. "Brian Slade combined politics and popular culture as Tommy Stone," he said. 

Jack nodded in agreement. "As I said earlier, my race's powers enable us to influence a culture.  We are drawn to the areas of fashion, art and music, as was Brian Slade initially.  But he is not restricted to that path and I'm sure that Wolfram and Hart would make him aware of other possibilities." 

"Possession of the stone helped Brian to develop his innate potential so that even after he'd passed it on he was able to wield influence as Tommy Stone," Angel said.  "But if he had the stone _now_ he would be able to consciously use the extra power to enhance his abilities."

"Exactly," Jack said.  "He'd be able to create a new persona who would make Brian Slade and Tommy Stone pale into insignificance by comparison."

"He must be kicking himself that he ever gave the stone away in the first place," Wesley remarked.

"So let me get this straight."  Angel stared at Jack, his voice harsh as he put two and two together and didn't much like the answer he came up with.  "Curt offered you the stone back, but for purely sentimental reasons, you refused to take it.  You chose instead to leave in our realm a Sidhe artefact that could be used to devastating effect in the wrong hands.  Did it never occur to you how irresponsible that was?"

"It does now," admitted Jack with an unexpected humility.  "But back then it didn't seem so foolish.  Brian had given the stone away, so he clearly had no concept of its true nature.  Believe me, at the time I had no idea that my actions would lead to someone I cared about being placed in danger.  I assure you that I shall do everything in my power to put right my mistake."

There was no doubting the sincerity of the Sidhe's words, and Angel's anger evaporated.  He understood very well the need to make amends; Jack Fairy's determination to do so was something he could respect. 

 

\--------

 

Angel's inner office featured bricked-up windows, and now Arthur understood that Angel's aversion to light wasn't simply the weird lifestyle choice it had appeared.  Curt wasn't in this office so Arthur followed Cordelia through to the outer one, hoping to find Curt sprawled on the couch, glaring at him as if he was some sort of traitor.  But this office, and the cloakroom beyond, was just as empty as the first had been. 

Arthur stared around in growing anxiety.  This wasn't looking good.  Sometimes he lived under the delusion that he understood the way Curt's mind worked, but the rest of the time he knew himself at a loss. He reminded himself that if he'd wanted a quiet, predictable life he'd never have followed Curt out of that bar in 1984, much less suggested later on that they should turn their part-time relationship into one that was more permanent.  Arthur wasn't a saint; he'd spent much of his life trying to live by others' expectations, and he recognised that balancing his need for acceptance with his need to be true to himself was going to be a lifelong endeavour.  But Curt appeared to have developed no such self-awareness, displaying instead a range of tactics that seemed designed to protect him from unpleasant truths; this included simply walking out when he couldn't deal with a situation.  Arthur preferred not to know where Curt went when he stormed out of the house, although he was certain that his preservation instinct would ensure that he didn't take stupid risks.  The important thing was that Curt came back. 

Cordelia made no comment about Curt's absence other than, "Let's check the foyer."

The foyer proved to be as empty as the offices. The knot of apprehension inside Arthur grew.  Love wasn't something he and Curt had talked about but most of the time Arthur knew they were good together, comfortable and at ease with each other, and it felt right.  That had been enough for Arthur, mostly.  Lately he'd begun to get over the fear that one day Curt would walk out and not return, assuming that Curt felt the same basic rightness of their relationship as he did.  But what if he'd assumed wrong? 

Cordelia looked at the doors leading onto the street and then back at Arthur.  "Now Curt wouldn't have been stupid enough to go outside, would he?  Not after Angel told him to stay put."

"He might well have done.  A lot depends on whether he really heard what Angel said, and if he believed leaving here would be dangerous.  Damn!  This is my fault; I know what he's like.  I should've gone up to him sooner!"

"Well you didn't," Cordelia told him, her tone indicating that it was pointless crying over spilt milk.  "None of us did.  We'd better go tell the others."

Angel, Wesley and Jack Fairy reacted to the news of Curt's disappearance with concern and, at least on Angel's part, some exasperation.

"We think maybe he's left the building," Cordelia told them.  "Now, seeing as how Cigarette Smoking Fairy here is able to track down people who've once owned the stone, I'm thinking he should be able to tell us if we're right. Or not.  As the case may be."

Jack totally ignored the sarcasm, and answered her calmly, "Yes, I can do that." He held out the stone on his hand, and Arthur watched for a moment as the Sidhe seemed to go into a semi-trance, his expression distant and lacking any focus.  After a few moments it became apparent that this was going to take some time so Arthur turned to Angel and Wesley.

"Did you find where Brian was, then?" he asked quietly.  He was not sure if holding a conversation would disturb Jack's concentration but, when there was no rebuke from the Sidhe, he had to assume that they'd been given tacit permission to continue talking.

"Not exactly," Wesley admitted.  "He's somewhere in L.A. but Jack was blocked when he tried to find his exact location.  We suspect the barrier has something to do with Wolfram and Hart."

"Wolfram and Hart?" Arthur frowned.  "You mean the law firm?"

"Yes, but unfortunately that's not all they are." The grim expression on Angel's face suggested that he'd had dealings with the firm before, and that it hadn't been on a matter of law but while investigating something dark and dangerous. 

"I must admit I had heard some odd rumours about their work practices," Arthur said.  "Would they, by any chance, be the sort of firm given to employing vampires as heavies?"

"Oh yes," Cordelia confirmed, with an almost gloomy relish.  "They're what you'd call equal opportunities employers.  Vampires, demons, rogue slayers ... if it's got fangs, venom or super-strength along with a complete lack of moral scruples, Wolfram and Hart will be interested in giving it a job."

Arthur refrained from asking what a rogue slayer was.  Or even what a _non_ -rogue slayer was, for that matter.  Although a part of him was curious, the question wasn't relevant to the matter of Curt's disappearance and that was first and foremost on his mind right now.

Jack gave a small polite cough, presumably to alert them to the fact that he now had some information to impart, and they all turned to look at him expectantly.  "Curt's definitely left the building, and he's moving with more speed than he could on foot."  Jack's face held a little frown, as if he considered this both unexpected and disquieting news.

"But he doesn't have his car here," Wesley objected.  "We drove back to the office in Angel's."

"So maybe he called a cab," Cordelia suggested.  "He could be on his way home."

"Not the smartest thing to do, considering the opposition knows where he lives," commented Angel with some irritation. 

Arthur felt like retorting that perhaps if Angel hadn't employed strong-arm tactics when Jack appeared then maybe Curt wouldn't have felt the need to flee from the office, but he held his tongue in the interest of harmony.  And Arthur knew he shared responsibility for that little altercation, too.  After all, he'd manoeuvred Curt into being there and had initially courted Angel's intervention, albeit in the mistaken belief that Angel would handle Curt's fear with rather more adroitness than he actually did.

Cordelia began, "We could give him a call when -" 

"Oh fuckin' hell!"

The Sidhe's unexpected profanity shocked her into silence, and for a long moment everyone stared at Jack with the growing certainty that whatever he'd sensed now, it was not good.

"What?" demanded Arthur urgently.  When Jack didn't reply immediately he rephrased his question, desperate for an answer.  "What have you found out?"

"The trace is being blocked," Jack replied with a little more composure, although his expression was still one of dismay.  "And I'm afraid it's the same kind of shield that stopped me from tuning into Brian."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: This story has a dark, angst-ridden portrayal of Brian Slade, which might not be to everyone's taste.

Curt realised that the journey was over when the car engine was finally cut.

He had no idea where they were. His impression was that they'd travelled some distance from Angel's offices but the blindfold he'd been forced to wear had handicapped his ability to judge time and distance accurately, and the route taken had been both too complex and lengthy to commit to memory.

All he'd wanted was a drink. Angel's office was equipped with a coffeemaker, but Curt had wanted – needed– something stronger. Certain that there must be a liquor store within a short walking distance, he'd had every intention of being back before anyone had had time to miss him. But in reality he'd not gone more than a few paces from the office block before a car pulled up alongside him, the front door swinging swiftly open to obstruct his path.

It was a big car, fast and powerful, the windows darkened to conceal the occupants, but Curt's complete attention was drawn by the gun in the hand of the man seated in the front passenger seat. The gun that was being held like its owner knew just how to use it, and wouldn't hesitate to do so at the slightest provocation. In horror Curt realised that the man was built along almost exactly the same lines as the well-dressed thugs who'd confronted him in the driveway at home.

Vampires. Angel and Wesley had insisted they were vampires. And Curt hadn't wanted to believe a word of it. But they'd also insisted that Jack was a fairy and that they could conjure him up, and then they'd gone ahead and done just that… oh _shit_.

Curt wanted to run. Oh God, how he wanted to run… But staring down the barrel of a gun focused his thoughts on the possibility of imminent death to such an alarming extent that when he was ordered into the back of the car he found himself unable to do anything other than comply. A second and equally threatening thug occupied the back seat – which quickly put paid to any bright idea Curt might have come up with about bolting out through the far door.

 _Not real, not happening_.

The old mantra simply wasn't having any effect at all now as the first man followed Curt onto the back seat, still covering him with the gun. As the door was closed, the car accelerated away. When the second man leaned across to blindfold Curt he'd resisted only briefly, the gun jammed in his ribs acting as a powerful deterrent. If they were kidnapping him that meant they presumably wanted him alive rather than dead – but Curt wasn't eager to test whether that would prevent them from damaging him in any way at all.

The vehicle had slowly cornered a sharp series of bends before coming to a halt. Curt heard the snick of a door opening, and a breath of cooler air wafted across his face, smelling strongly of gasoline.

"Move."

Like every other instruction he'd been given by his captors it was brief, to the point, and conveyed in a tone that was utterly inflexible. Blindly, Curt felt his way out of the car, trying to avoid cracking his head as he did so. As soon as he'd exited the vehicle, he was pushed forward. The ground felt hard underfoot and their steps echoed in a way that suggested they were in a large covered space – an underground garage, perhaps? When Curt stumbled, flinging out a hand to save himself from falling, he grazed his knuckles against a rough concrete wall.

"Wait."

Curt heard a slight hiss, the sound of electric doors. A shove in the small of his back urged him to step forward again and once the doors closed behind them the floor began to move. They were in an elevator. Curt's nerves, which were already strung taut as a bowstring, finally snapped as the elevator came to a halt and the doors slid open. Desperate enough by now to take his chances with the gun, he lunged forward, one hand going up to try and snatch the blindfold from his eyes. But his captors responded so quickly that he'd obviously telegraphed his intentions to them. He was tripped with swift efficiency, landing this time on soft carpet, and his hand was dragged away from his face before he even managed to touch the blindfold.

"Stupid," a voice hissed. He was pulled upright and his arm twisted behind his back, a clear indication that further attempts at escape would be futile and only get him hurt. "Now behave."

He was frogmarched forward. The air no longer smelt of petrol but had the cool dryness he associated with air-conditioning. This time they went only a short way before they came to a halt. A door opened and Curt was pushed inside. His arms were gripped and he was forced to sit down; metal jangled briefly before he felt the coldness of handcuffs encircle his wrists, chaining him to the chair.

When at last the blindfold was removed Curt immediately turned his head to one side, squinting as bright electric light blazed into his eyes. He blinked several times, trying to adjust his sight as quickly as possible.

He was in an office. A thick, pale coloured carpet and cream walls were home to a collection of bland furnishings – desk, computer, chairs, and bookshelves – but there was nothing at all to indicate exactly where he was. The room's only decorations were two pallid paintings on the wall to the left of him; no photographs or framed certificates offered any clue as to whom the office belonged.

The office's only occupant was facing away from Curt, standing before a huge window and looking out over the night cityscape. Dressed in an expensively cut suit, hands clasped behind his back, the man lacked the bulk of the thugs who had kidnapped Curt. No lackey, this one, Curt could see that at a glance. This was someone who was accustomed to being in control and who had stage-managed his first appearance for maximum effect.

The man turned around.

Clean-shaven, with finely sculpted features, his age could have been anywhere between forty and sixty. His dark hair was greying at the temples, giving him a distinguished look not unlike that of a venerable statesman. Only no one in their right minds would have voted for anyone whose expression was as harsh and unyielding as this man's. For a long moment he just stared silently at Curt, his eyes as chilling as a winter sky, his expression almost predatory.

"Who the hell are you?" Curt was deliberately aggressive, using it to try and mask his fear. "Why the fuck did you kidnap me, and – "

"Where's the stone?" The man interrupted impatiently; his accent lacked any identifying characteristics and, like his office, gave no clues concerning his personality or background.

"What stone?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. I want the jewel Brian Slade gave to you. Where is it?"

"Fuck off! I'm not telling you anything." Curt yanked on the handcuffs but they held firm. When he looked up the man was watching him struggle, his lips twisted in something altogether too unpleasant to be called a smile. Then he moved to the desk and picked up a phone. "

This is Johnson. I'm going to need them. Send them up." Replacing the receiver, he lifted his head, his eyes almost hypnotic as they stared at Curt.

"What do you want from me?" Fear spilled into Curt's voice in spite of all his best efforts.

"Jack Fairy's stone. It's not on you, I can tell that much. And as you insist on being stubborn, you force me to use other methods."

"What _other methods_?" Curt knew panic had to be showing in his eyes now, but he couldn't do a damn thing to hide it. He found it impossible to stop himself from imagining the worst; he was certain this menacing excuse for a man would order the information tortured out of him without any hesitation whatsoever. And if Curt was forced to give the whereabouts of the stone, well, he'd seen more than enough to know that he'd be putting the lives of everyone at Angel Investigations on the line. Jack could, presumably, vanish the same way he'd arrived should he choose. Angel and Wesley could probably take care of themselves, but could they also protect Cordelia? And Arthur? Arthur – oh God. The idea that Arthur might end up at the mercy of those thugs – those _vampires_ – made Curt's blood turn to ice.

The door opened.

 

\-----------

"We should be doing something!" Arthur stood up and began pacing the room, unable to bear sitting still for a moment longer.

"We _are_ doing something," Wesley assured him. "Before we can take any sort of action we need to think it through. To start with, we can't be absolutely certain that Curt _is_ in the Wolfram and Hart building."

"You said you felt the same shield," Arthur challenged Jack.

"No, I said I felt the same _kind_ of shield. Someone completely different could have generated it. I have no way of knowing." Jack lit up another cigarette. He'd been practically chain-smoking since he'd lost Curt's trace but Cordelia, obviously aware that he was doing so because of extreme anxiety, had not made any snide comment about it.

"No-one seems to know much all of a sudden, at least nothing helpful. First you think you can go to Wolfram and Hart via the Sidhe dimension, and then you decide you can't —"

"As I said, Wolfram and Hart have protections placed to prevent a race like the Sidhe turning up and doing precisely that," Angel interrupted. "Look, I know this is hard for you, but you just have to… to…"

"Sit down, shut up and let us get on with it," Cordelia finished for him.

"All right!" Arthur sat down again, biting his lip. Every instinct screamed at him to do something, to go and find Curt — on his own, if need be. But it was Curt's precipitate departure that had prompted this crisis in the first place, so Arthur emulating him was unlikely to help anyone in the long term.

For the first time Arthur began to have an idea of how Curt had felt. To begin with, Arthur's journalistic instincts had been fascinated and even excited by the discovery that vampires and Sidhe really existed. But it had all turned sour. Now he was the one on information overload with all this talk of spells and moving between dimensions. When he thought about it, he could appreciate why they hadn't let him call the police; if he was having trouble comprehending what was going on, the police stood no chance. Getting himself locked in a cell because the authorities thought he was a dangerous lunatic about to storm the Wolfram and Hart building single-handed would not help Curt's situation at all.

He tried to close his mind to the discussion going on around him — it wasn't as if he had any useful contribution to make in any case — and he also tried not to think about where Curt was and what might be happening to him. Instead, he let his attention linger on Jack's mannerisms; the hand holding the cigarette was occasionally used to emphasise a point with theatrical gestures, which were clearly a natural expression of the Sidhe's personality rather than affectations. As the smoke spiralled and eddied, Arthur recalled his interview with Mandy when she had elaborated on a snatch of song lyric in reference to Jack — "A cigarette tracing a ladder to the stars." Jack had sung that particular song at the Death of Glitter concert.

Arthur closed his eyes for a moment. He'd thought his life back then, as a confused adolescent, was complicated enough but really, it all seemed quite simple in retrospect. At least, simple compared to now. Jack had been a Glam Rock icon, not a being from another dimension while Brian's persona of Maxwell Demon had been an exciting image, rather than a foreshadowing of what he might become in reality. And Curt had been…

Arthur opened his eyes, the sweetness of the memories soured by his fears here in the present. Curt was Curt, the man he loved, and Arthur wanted him back — safe, whole and in his arms — like he'd never wanted anything in his life before.

\-----------

Curt's initial impression was that the two women who had entered the room were identical twins, but as they walked across to him the disparity in their heights became apparent. Maybe they were sisters, then.

The women wore matching severely styled suits in black, and both of them had their hair shaved completely up the back of their skulls; the rest of it was cropped into a short geometric cap emphasizing their bone structure. Moving without gesture or words, they regarded him with a weird clinical interest like he was some new specimen they were about to dissect. Their mouths were set and unsmiling.

Oh God… Curt wanted to look away but as they stepped forward to face him he found it impossible to do so. One of the women regarded him unnervingly out of dark, unblinking eyes; the other also stared at him but held her head turned a little to one side as if she was listening to something only she could hear.

Curt drew in a deep breath. If he could keep quiet long enough perhaps Angel would come rescue him, or something… Except Angel didn't know where he was. Hell, _he_ didn't know where he was. Oh fuck. Maybe if he concentrated really hard on the fact that Arthur and the stone were currently safe at Angel Investigations, he would be able to bear the pain of whatever was about to happen to him. He had nothing else to hold onto. Focussing his mind desperately on Arthur and the stone like they were some kind of talisman, Curt waited.

Nothing happened.

After a long moment, the women simply turned and walked without haste to Johnson. They spoke to him in low, inaudible voices and then left at his nod of dismissal. Curt swallowed. What the fuck was going on here?

Johnson looked at him and gave a thin smile. "So the stone's at Angel Investigations. I suspected as much, but I had to be sure."

"What the… how do you…"

"They were telepaths. They took the information directly from your mind. Ironic, isn't it? Because you were concentrating so hard on the stone, the exact details of its whereabouts were the first thing the telepaths encountered. They didn't have to search for the information at all — you handed it right to them. Thank you."

Curt closed his eyes. "No…"

"Yes." The man stepped a little closer. His face was so perfect it could only have been achieved with cosmetic surgery. Perfect and utterly poisonous. "You seem rather upset. I thought you'd be grateful that the procedure was so painless. But then, you never did like being helpless, did you?"

"How would you know…" Curt's voice trailed off. Only someone who knew him most intimately would have any idea of this particular dread of his. Someone he'd trusted. "Are you saying you _know_ me? That I know you?" Curt forced himself to stillness, his heart racing. He felt like he was teetering on the edge of an unfathomable precipice. All it would take was one more push and he'd fall, so fast and so far that maybe he'd never be able to climb back out of whatever hell was waiting for him.

"Search your memories. You'll find me there."

"I don't know anyone called Johnson."

Johnson smiled again and this time his hawk-like stare seemed eerily familiar. "But that wasn't always my name."

 

 _Curt screamed, his hips thrusting, his fingers locked in Brian's hair._

 _They were alone in the park of the nineteenth century mansion Brian had rented, but right at that moment Curt wouldn't have cared if the entire band of the Coldstream Guards had been marching past. As his pleasure peaked, all he could do was ride the crest of the wave Brian drew from him and let it carry him higher and higher, until it curled over and crashed him down to earth in a kaleidoscope of fragmented light and colour._

 _Gasping, Curt relaxed into stillness, hands dropping to curl loosely at his sides, breathing ragged. He kept his eyes closed. Fuck, but Brian was good. Those lips, that tongue, seemed to have been fashioned purely to give pleasure. Curt didn't delude himself that Brian had never practised these arts on anyone else – hell, he'd obviously been refining his skills for years – but the degree of attention that Brian lavished on their lovemaking was more than just flattering, it was totally captivating._

 _Supple as a cat, Brian slid on top of him, practically purring with pleasure as he pressed his body possessively against Curt's heated skin. Then Curt felt the hot tang of Brian's breath against his cheek, and Brian's tongue began to lick a delicate trail over his face, tasting his skin with a light, probing touch like a snake._

 _"Tickles…" Curt muttered, and found his mouth stopped with Brian's. When the kiss ended, Curt finally opened his eyes and found Brian staring down at him, unblinking, face set and serious._

 _"You know I love you, Curt," he said._

 _Curt put one hand up to stroke the blue feathery hair. Brian's eye shadow was smudged, his lipstick gone completely, but in all his intensity and sweetness he'd never been more beautiful._

 _"Love you too, Brian." Curt said it without thinking, but the moment he'd spoken the words he realised the truth of them. There had never been a time in his life when he'd felt this good, this sure about himself and where he was headed. He knew full well he was grinning up at Brian like a moonstruck idiot, and he didn't give a fuck. Everything was perfect now because this brilliant, gorgeous man loved him, whole-heartedly and without reservation. What else could Curt do but love him back?_

 _"I want to give you something," Brian said softly._

 _"You just did." Curt grinned, teasing, and stroked his fingers down Brian's lithe back._

 _"No, not that." Brian frowned imperiously. "Wait here. I'll get it." He stood up, pulling on his pants and moving towards the house before Curt could think of any response._

 _Deprived of his human blanket, Curt began to feel cold, so after a few moments of staring up at the thin, pale English sunlight streaming through the leafy treetops he got to his feet. Standing on the damp grass, he slipped into his pants and slid his arms into his shirt, wondering if he could prevail upon Brian to make their next romantic tryst somewhere warmer. Although he was sure Brian would soon be back, Curt felt curiously abandoned. The sun went in and he shivered._

 _And then Brian was racing back towards him, something clutched in his hand. He was like a small child, his face plastered with a grin as bright as the sun. The clouds parted as Brian reached him, and Curt felt warm again._

 _"What is it?"_

 _"This." Brian held out the green jewel on the palm of his hand. "It belonged to Oscar Wilde once."_

 _"Really?"_

 _"Really. It's special, and it's for you," said Brian, pinning it to the white shirt, "because I love you."_

 _"Brian…" Curt couldn't think of anything to say, but the words didn't matter. They leaned into an embrace, arms wrapped around each other, and the world went away._

 

"Brian… no… oh no…"

Curt shook his head, praying that if he denied the reality often enough and with enough force it would simply cease to be reality. But this time he knew it wasn't going to happen. This time the present had collided head first with the past and there was no way in hell he could avoid facing up to it.

Curt knew he could handle the dark memories through music; Jack Fairy had shown him how, and stopped Curt's reliance on the drugs that would've killed him in the end. In music he could let the memories loose, the sound tearing through his mind, scouring like a whirlwind until those inner demons were exhausted and obedient. But there was no music here, only ugly memories facing off an even uglier present.

The man who had been Brian was watching him. "You walked out on me. Do you have any idea what that did to me?"

"No…"

"I loved you!"

Be honest. Speak true. God, he owed the man that much, to try and put into words what he couldn't back then. "I loved… Brian, too. I thought he'd – you'd – come after me. But you never did."

"I was waiting for _you_ to come back, you dumb fuck!"

"I couldn't, Bri. That was the whole fucking point of me walking out! You were… trying to make me into someone I wasn't. All my life people had been messing with my head, and then you – you started in on me, too. Like suddenly I wasn't good enough for you anymore. You made me feel like shit! When I was a kid, I didn't have any choice over what people did to me. But I wasn't a kid anymore, and I chose to go. Figured it would bring you to your senses."

"Really?" Johnson –Brian's – fingers closed about his chin, jerking his head up. "What you did destroyed me, you arrogant little prick! I killed the demon for you, but by then you were too busy cosying up to Jack to want to know me anymore!"

The death of Maxwell Demon? That stupid stunt had been supposed to woo Curt back? In hindsight Curt could see at last how Brian's reasoning might have gone: he'd thought he _was_ Maxwell Demon so by symbolically killing himself he had put an end to that part of his life. "I didn't understand that. I'm sorry."

"Sorry? Is that all you can say?"

"What the hell else is there to say?"

"You screwed my life up, you bastard!"

"Oh no, you screwed your own life up! You made your own choices, Brian."

"Fuck you!" Without warning, Brian kissed him. There was nothing of passion in it, nothing of pleasure. Curt let himself go weak, passive, willing it to end. No long-denied love flared into life at the feel of those hard lips on his. There was nothing, only a deep pity for the creature Brian had turned himself into.

Johnson broke away, his eyes glittering, although he seemed to have regained a little more composure. "For old times sake, eh? Shall we go all the way, Curt? What do you say?"

"I'm your prisoner. You can do what the fuck you like with me and I can't stop you," Curt said tiredly.  
One eyebrow arched. "Do you really think I _want_ you? Look at yourself. You're old, past it, a pathetic has-been. I know all about your life now, Curt. You've founded charities for drug addicts and abused kids – what do you get out of that, hmm? Do all the pretty-boy junkies come round and thank you personally with a blowjob, is that it?"

Curt refused to dignify that with an answer.

"And then you work as a session musician for any up and coming band that thinks you can do something for them. Why? Do you think they really respect you? They're using you, Curt."

"Yeah? Well, you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?"

"And lastly we come to your cosy domestic arrangements, finally moving in with your pet journalist – who just happens to be the very journalist who fucking ruined my second career." Johnson's accent was slipping; he sounded noticeably more like Brian now – Brian at his vituperative worse. "Does that amuse you, Curt? Do you and your darling Arthur lie there at night and chuckle at the great cosmic irony of it?"

"No, we have better things to do."

"Not when I'm finished with Arthur Stuart, you won't. You see I've been making very powerful friends here in LA and soon I'll be able to administer some long overdue payback without any worry that it'll be traced back to me."

"Fuck you!" Curt could no longer remain unmoved by the taunts. The bastard was out of range but Curt tried to kick him anyway, lashing out with both feet and wrenching at the cuffs that bound his arms. He knew it was useless, but then this wasn't a reasoned act, it was one born out of frantic desperation, and fear. If Arthur was hurt in any way… It would be more than Curt could stand. Arthur was… Arthur was the one decent thing he had going for him. Well-meaning, clueless Arthur – and whose fault was it that he was so clueless? Curt had been too fearful to ever let him in on the things that mattered. And Arthur had been so patient, taking him back time after time, forgiving his shitty ways and building a life for them in spite of everything. Oh God, Arthur… he couldn't lose Arthur because –

"Do you love him?" Brian's voice was quiet and threatening, as if daring him to answer.

Curt stared up at him. "Yes. I love him. And if you hurt him, I'll kill you."

"How wonderfully melodramatic." Brian's eyes were furious, dark with rage. "You won't get the chance, Curt, darling. After I've put paid to Stuart, it's your turn. No-one treats me like shit and gets away with it."

"You haven't listened to a word I've said, have you? I didn't set out to hurt you. I was a stupid, immature asshole who didn't know any better and I'm sorry."

"Not sorry enough. But you will be." Brian straightened, breathing deeply as if trying to regain focus. "However, first things first. I need Jack Fairy's stone, and I'm sure Angel Investigations will be happy to turn it over to me – seeing as they'll believe it's in exchange for your life."

\-----------

When Angel's cellphone rang, everyone stopped talking. Angel picked up the receiver.

"We know the green jewel is in your possession," a cold voice informed him. "If you wish your client returned to you unharmed you will follow my instructions to the letter."

"And what _are_ your instructions?" Angel demanded. He was aware that everyone was looking at him and, although they were unable to hear what the caller said, their expressions indicated they'd guessed what this was about.

"Do you know the waste ground which was the site of the Di Marco Textiles factory?"

"Give me the route," Angel said.

The directions he got were detailed and specific, including how long he should take, which entrance to the site he should use, and that he should take his cellphone with him and await further instructions once he arrived. The connection was cut abruptly. With a thoughtful expression, Angel slipped the cellphone into his pocket.

"Well, it was lucky you remembered to recharge your cellphone," Cordelia said brightly.

"And even more lucky that you remembered to actually turn it on," Wesley murmured.

"Well?" Arthur had just about reached breaking point. "Angel, what the hell's happening?"

"We've been ordered to exchange the stone for Wild."

"Was it Brian Slade who called you?" Wesley asked.

"I've no idea. He didn't introduce himself. Get the maps out, Wesley. I want to see exactly what we're going into." Angel quickly relayed the address he'd been given. "Our priority has to be getting Wild back safely. From then on, we'll have to improvise."

"No need to bother with maps," Jack said. "I can get more detailed information from the Sidhe database."

"You have computers too?" Wesley's expression was priceless.

"Of course. Surely you don't imagine that information technology is limited to your realm?" Jack gave Arthur a meaningful look and added, "After all, we need up-to-date resources to provide the documentation which will give us an identity in your world."

"How long is this going to take?" Arthur, obviously aware that they had limited time to make the rendezvous, was clearly anxious to avoid any unnecessary delay.

"You'll barely notice my absence," Jack assured him. "As the old legends indicated, time runs differently in my dimension." Then he paused for a moment, his gaze once more becoming distant and drawn. "Wait. Brian's on the move – I'm picking up his trace again. Wherever he was earlier, the place must have been shielded."

"But there's no way of telling whether or not it was the Wolfram and Hart building?" Wesley asked.  
Jack shook his head, looking preoccupied. "I'm also picking up Curt's trace."

"So we know he's definitely with Brian." Wesley glanced quickly at Arthur's expression and presumably thought better of pointing out the obvious: unless Brian really intended honouring the deal — which seemed highly unlikely — then being alongside Brian effectively placed Curt in the line of fire.

"I'll deal with Brian," Jack said. "Now his involvement is confirmed, he's my responsibility."  
Jack seemed to flicker out of existence for an instant and then he reappeared. This time he was dressed in a long black coat worn over jeans and he had a sheaf of papers tucked under one arm. The change of image was startling; the coat was a little shabby, his hair veered on the lank and lifeless side and his face was devoid of makeup. In fact, he now radiated as much charisma as a brick wall and appeared to be nothing more than a tall thin young man people who wouldn't be given a second glance at in the street.

Noticing that everyone was staring at him in surprise, Jack said, "If Brian could unconsciously sense my true nature in 1969, who knows what he's capable of now? This is _my_ version of a psychic shield."

"Did you get the information?" Angel asked.

"Yes." Jack laid the papers out on the table. He had a general map of Los Angeles, highlighting the locations of both Angel's office and their destination. The second one showed the streets around the old factory site, while the third showed in detail the site itself with the surrounding buildings.  
"There's plenty of space in this area, and the buildings either side are empty."

"An ideal place for an ambush, then." Angel thought of the havoc that could be caused by a few well-positioned rifles — not to mention crossbows with wooden bolts.

"Don't worry, I've got that covered."

"How?" asked Angel.

Jack gave him an enigmatic smile, which clearly stated he wasn't about to give away all the Sidhe secrets. Angel decided that he had no choice but to trust Jack Fairy. After all, the Sidhe had taken the stone with him when he'd vanished; if he'd only wanted to ensure that it could no longer fall into the wrong hands he would have had no reason to return.

\-----------

They were back in the car, only this time Johnson – Brian – was also a passenger. Curt had been blindfolded again, but he was highly aware of Brian's silent presence beside him. He could smell the sharp, citrus tang of the other man's cologne and when the car swerved sharply around a corner, he was thrown against a lean body, not the muscled bulk of the vampire mobsters.

Angel had agreed to the exchange. Brian had informed Curt of this with more than a hint of smugness, as if to underscore how everything was proceeding according to his plan. Curt, however, had felt a quick lift in spirits at the information. Angel hadn't struck him as the kind of guy who'd walk into situations he wasn't able to get out of. Brian was obviously planning some nasty double-cross, but Angel was likely expecting that too. Curt was sure Angel wouldn't just hand over the stone given that Brian – this new, horribly sinister Brian – sure as hell wasn't after it for any benevolent purpose. Which begged the question of why exactly _did_ Brian want the stone.

"Y'know, this is a helluva lot of trouble to go to just to get back a gift you gave me over twenty years ago," Curt remarked. "You could've wrote me, or called."

"And you'd have just handed it back, would you?" Brian sounded genuinely curious.

"Like hell I would. Fact is, it wasn't even yours to give away in the first place seeing as how you stole it from Jack Fairy."

"I suppose he just had to tell you about that, didn't he? The stupid little queen hadn't the slightest idea what the stone could do – and unfortunately neither had I at the time or I'd never have given the damn thing to you."

"'Course you wouldn't — it was only okay to give the pin to me when it was just a pretty trinket." Obviously Brian was completely unaware of who Jack Fairy really was, and Curt had absolutely no intention of enlightening him.

"It was only when you walked out on me, and took the stone with you, that everything started to go wrong – I know now that I'd been tapping its powers all along without even being aware of it."

"The stone has some kind of power?" It was on the tip of Curt's tongue to denounce this as mystical bullshit, but he held back. For one, it served little point to antagonise Brian needlessly when he was being forthcoming with information – although quite what use Curt would be able to make of it was a moot point. Secondly, Curt had seen more than enough to convince him that just because something sounded like mystical bullshit didn't mean it wasn't for real.

"The stone gives power to those of Sidhe blood, and Sidhe blood flows within my veins. When I had it I unconsciously used it to enhance my career."

"So what do you want to do with it now? Reinvent the Glam Rock era?"

Brian laughed, but it wasn't a pleasant sound. "I have much bigger plans than that, and new friends who've been showing me how I can achieve them. It's about control, Curt. I will have the power to control."

"You want to rule the world, Brian, is that it? Christ, I knew you'd become a megalomaniac little shit, but this is deluded, even for you. Is power the only thing that matters to you now?"

"I discovered long ago that it's the only lover worth having," Brian said softly.

 

 _In the recording studio when Brian stalked towards him, head forward and eyes hard as ice, Curt tried a call to reason, a plea to remember what they had been to each other._

 _"Brian…"_

 _But the stare lasted, Brian ignored the appeal, and Curt lost it completely. The violence and the obscenities that erupted from him then didn't destroy their relationship, whatever Jerry and the rest chose to make of it; Curt's outburst just provided a public funeral for something he knew in his heart was already dead._

 _Afterwards Brian accused him of time wasting, of being unprofessional. But Curt's kind of music wasn't the sort to be confined and played by numbers; it was raw, wild energy that had to come from the heart or it wouldn't come at all. And this was something that Curt found hard to explain, and that Brian didn't want to hear anyway._

 _"You can't keep on screwing up like this, Curt!" Brian's lips thinned, his face set and angry. "Time in the studio costs money – you know that!"_

 _"Is that what it's all about? **Money**?"_

 _"I'm not doing this for a joke, Curt! I have to keep Jerry sweet! This album is important to me!"_

 _"And I'm not?"_

 _"Of course I didn't mean that, love," Brian said quickly, but it sounded more like a facile attempt to pacify a sulky child than a declaration of undying love. "But I'm tired, Curt. I'm tired of covering for you, and tired of apologising to Jerry for your mistakes."_

 _"I know, I know, and I'm trying, but –"_

 _"Yes — you're fucking trying my patience, and everyone else's!" Brian abandoned his attempt at conciliation, cutting short Curt's halting explanation. "I'm sick of listening to your excuses, Curt. You're **not** trying – it's bloody obvious you don't give a shit about me or my career!"_

 _"That's just Jerry talking —"_

 _"This isn't about Jerry, it's about me. I don't want dead weight, Curt."_

 _Curt stared at him. There was an air of chilling finality to Brian's last statement. "Is that all I am to you now, Brian? Dead weight?_

 _The silence was more damning than words. Brian looked away, biting his lower lip._

 _"You've had what you wanted from me, and now it's over?" Curt wanted to hear Brian say it._

 _"Well, that's up to you, isn't it?" Brian still wouldn't meet his eyes. "We can't go on like this, Curt. I can't be your life support system forever. And right now you're not earning your keep."_

 _"What? I fuck up a few lousy lyrics and suddenly I'm not worth the effort?"_

 _"It's not just that, and you know it. Curt, the way you are right now … it's not what I need in my life."_

 _"You mean **I'm** not what you need in your life."_

 _"You could change! I **want** you to change, Curt, and then it could be like it was before!"_

 _But only until Brian had determined to reinvent his image again, and then Curt would have to adapt once more — the way Mandy had done — or be discarded by the wayside. And Brian either couldn't see that Curt's sense of self was fucked up enough already without being put through that sort of shit, or else he simply didn't care._

 _"Where are you going?" Brian demanded as Curt headed for the door._

 _"What's it to you?" Curt flung back._

 _When Brian hesitated, Curt walked out. And it soon became obvious that Brian didn't care._

 _At least, not enough to come after him._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: This story has a dark, angst-ridden portrayal of Brian Slade, which might not be to everyone's taste.

Wesley drew the car to a halt beside the entrance to Di Marco Textiles. A battered sign hung off the open iron gates, proclaiming its name to a largely indifferent world. It looked to Angel as if not just the factory but also the whole area surrounding it had been empty for several years. When he glanced at the buildings, he saw that every single window not boarded up had been shattered. Most of the street lighting was out, suggesting that this was a no-go area as far as maintenance work was concerned.

"Nice neighbourhood." Cordelia was not impressed. "Guess even the junkies and gangsters give this one a miss."

"Or they've been warned off tonight." Angel's sharper eyes had seen a discarded syringe blown against a darkened doorway and he suspected that ordinarily this area wouldn't be quite so deserted.

"So we're heading into a trap." Wesley didn't sound too thrilled, and Angel couldn't blame him.

"Probably." Angel stared into the mirror, watching Jack's reflection, but the Sidhe offered no further assurances about their safety. The cellphone rang and Angel slipped it out of his pocket.

"Yes?"

"Go inside. Direct your headlights to the far end of the site."

"Wes –"

"I heard." Wesley eased the car through the open gates, and inched forward until he detected shapes and movement in the glare of the vehicle's lights. "There."

"I see them." Angel's eyes narrowed. There were several people up ahead, grouped between two cars.

"Curt?" Arthur craned his head forward, trying to make out what was happening. "Do you see him? Is he okay?"

"He's here." Curt Wild was easy enough for Angel to recognise even through the dark at a distance, pinioned as he was by the sizeable bulk of two thugs – possibly vampires or maybe the humans Wolfram and Hart sometimes hired for occasions like these. The other figure, of slighter build and holding himself aloof from the others, must be Slade.

"Take the stone," Jack said, leaning forward to hand it over to Angel. "Do what Brian says."

"Do what Brian says?" Cordelia looked unimpressed. "What kind of a plan is _that_?"

"Trust me," Jack said quietly. He didn't so much as glance at Cordelia. Instead he simply held Angel's gaze with his own for a few long seconds. There was no indication that the Sidhe was attempting to influence Angel's decision by any arcane means. On the contrary, his expression was almost diffident, as if he was trying to avoid any possible accusations of coercion, and yet this made his request all the more compelling; Angel knew that he'd been left free to weigh the evidence and use his best judgement. He made up his mind.

"Cordelia – flashlight." Angel's voice brooked no argument and Cordelia didn't offer him one. He opened the car door and stepped out into the cool night air. The others followed suit, but Angel noticed that Jack took care to stay in the background. At one point he touched Arthur's arm lightly, as if to reassure him. Angel was grateful for that small intervention. Cordelia and Wesley both knew the score, but Arthur's emotional investment meant that his actions were less easy to predict.

"Do you have the stone?" The voice that hailed him was the one Angel had heard on the cellphone, Slade's voice he realised now, but it wasn't as cold and dispassionate as it had sounded earlier when giving its instructions. There was an undercurrent of excitement to it now, an eager, grasping need.

"I have it."

"Then come forward. On your own."

Angel did as he was told, trusting that Jack would be able to prevent Arthur from rushing after him. One careful step at a time, ever aware of the possibility of an attack, he paced forward until he reached a midway point between his party and Slade's.

"Stop. Put the stone on the ground and then back away, slowly... that's far enough. Stay there."

Angel waited, one hand hung loosely by his side and the other directing the flashlight onto Slade's entourage as they approached him. Curt's guards had their vamp faces on as if to make a point of what they were although Angel couldn't think why; if they were hoping to intimidate him they'd obviously lost the plot, and Curt was blindfolded so unable to appreciate their effort. Curt's body was taut with nervous tension – which was hardly surprising given the circumstances - but at least he looked unharmed and still sane.

Angel watched as Slade crossed over to the stone and snatched it up. Then he held it clasped possessively in one hand, his eyes closing, his mind clearly focussing in a similar way to Jack's when he was trying to locate Slade's and Curt's whereabouts. But Slade was tuning into the stone itself, Angel realised, and trying to verify its authenticity.

"Angel?" Curt spoke suddenly into the silence.

"I'm here."

"You mustn't give Brian the stone, don't let him use –" With a snarl, one of the vampires cut off the warning, sealing a massive hand over Curt's mouth. The other tightened his grip in a way that must have been painful, given how Curt flinched. Angel's eyes narrowed but he did nothing.

"It's genuine." Slade straightened, his eyes gleaming with triumph.

"Then let Wild go," Angel said quietly. "We had a deal."

"And you imagined that I'd honour it? That I'd let all of you leave unharmed?" Slade smiled but there was no warmth in the expression, only a warped amusement at what he took for Angel's naivety.

Curt made a muffled sound of protest, struggling futilely against his vampire captors and apparently unconcerned by the fact that either one of them was capable of breaking his neck with a single twist of their hand. Angel said nothing. He merely waited, never taking his eyes off Slade. The vampires wouldn't make a move unless Slade ordered them to.

And then the air between Angel and Slade blurred and thickened, coalescing into the figure of Jack Fairy.

For some inexplicable reason he was now wearing a long grey dress adorned with shining silver beads around his neck, and Angel registered almost immediately that this time the Sidhe was using his glamour quite openly: the power spilled towards them like a bright wash of energy from the heart of a sun. The two vampires holding Curt seemed stupefied by it but in a matter of moments Angel realised that he hadn't been afflicted in the same way; obviously Fairy was temporarily excluding him from the full effects of the glamour. Angel wasted no time taking advantage of the situation. He stepped forward and yanked Curt out of the vampires' grip.

"What –" Curt stumbled and Angel tore the blindfold from his head. Immediately Curt's eyes were drawn to the Sidhe. "Jack?"

"Go," Angel muttered. "Get back to the others. Go on – _now_!" He gave Curt's shoulder a shake and pushed him away from Jack, in the direction of the car.

~*~

Brian Slade stared at Jack in disbelief. It was bad enough that he had literally appeared out of thin air but Brian realised almost immediately that this wasn't the stupid little queen he remembered. This Jack Fairy was eerily beautiful in a way that transcended human limitations. Now he radiated a power and glamour that was frankly terrifying. Brian had learnt enough to recognise that he was facing a pureblooded Sidhe, but he didn't know any way of defending himself against the enchantment being woven around him. The knowledge that he had no control over the situation, that against his will he was being drawn completely under Jack Fairy's spell, made him sick with fear.

Jack was wearing exactly the same dress and necklaces as he had at the Sombrero club, but the earring was conspicuous by its absence. Brian closed his hand tightly around the Fairy Stone, trying to fight the allure and yet feeling himself slipping...

 _Emptiness. Silence._

 _For a long moment Brian could see and hear nothing through the white fog that surrounded him. Panicked, he turned, looking for something, anything to mark this featureless landscape. And then the mists swirled and shifted to reveal a mirror. It was tall, the glass slightly tarnished, the gilt peeling in places from the ornate frame. Brian stepped in front of it and raised his eyes to meet his reflection._

 _He didn't have one. Or at least no single reflection, for the various faces he'd worn over the years looked back at him, each competing weirdly with the others so that first one and then another would prevail before merging back with the multitude and letting a new image take its place. Brian Slade – in all his incarnations. Tommy Stone. Robert Johnson. Just looking at such chaos made Brian feel nauseous, and he tried to close his eyes or turn away, but he couldn't._

 _And then a figure appeared behind the images in the mirror, and Brian's heart began to beat faster. Lust? Fear? Both, because Jack Fairy was moving in on him in the same predatory manner that Brian had moved in on Jack all those years ago in the Sombrero. It was as erotic as it was sinister and Brian was mesmerised. His mind told him to resist, but his body was responding to Jack's with a desire that was frightening._

 _Closing the remaining distance between them, Jack put one hand behind Brian's head and drew him round into a kiss. Brian surrendered completely, his mouth opening hungrily to Jack's probing tongue. He was vaguely aware of Jack catching hold of his hand, but the significance was lost on him as Jack deepened the kiss. Whimpering with need, Brian rubbed his body against Jack's, his free hand frantically fumbling under the necklaces to reach the zip of the Sidhe's dress._

 _Nothing in Brian's experience had prepared him for such agony of lust. Every sense he owned was heightened into an almost unbearable intensity and his body screamed for consummation, even as his mind warned against it. But Brian had gone beyond reason: all he knew now was that he wanted to possess, and be possessed in turn._

 _Not until Jack finally released him did Brian remember the green stone that he'd held tight in his palm, and by then it had gone from his grasp._

 _His world began to splinter apart._

~*~

"Kill them! Kill them all!"

Curt had only taken a few steps forward when he heard Brian's frenzied scream and turned. The bright burning sensation he'd felt between his shoulder blades – rather as if an inferno blazed behind him – had abruptly vanished.

When he looked around he saw Brian staggering, his hands clutching his head, backing away from Jack and staring at him with an expression of absolute horror. Jack was watching Brian, his face touched with a curious regret.

Both the two vampires and Angel appeared to be coming out of a daze. Angel reacted first, smashing one of the vampires in the face with the flashlight and dropkicking the other to the ground. After what he'd seen earlier Curt didn't have much doubt that Angel could put paid to these two all on his own but he saw several more vampires rushing up from the parked vehicles, obviously intent on carrying out Brian's last instructions. Curt hesitated.

"Get back to the car – we'll handle this!" Wesley charged past him, clutching several sharp stakes and practically impaling himself in his haste. The look of steely determination in his eyes, however, suggested that what he might lack by way of expertise compared to Angel he'd make up for through sheer strength of will.

Curt had no reason to stay, no reason not to rush equally madly in the opposite direction until he found safety and – please God - Arthur, but he still hesitated. Brian was acting like he'd been injured - what had happened? Unwillingly trapped by the memories of how much Brian had once meant to him, Curt took an uncertain step towards his one-time lover.

The world wavered and slowed to let him through.

Catching his breath, Curt stood still in utter shock. The air against his skin was no longer cool but warm and faintly tingling, like the aftermath of a violent storm. He could hear nothing although he could still see Brian, reeling as if drunk, and Angel and Wesley, tackling vampires and somehow managing to move a lot faster than their opponents, but it was all going on elsewhere in a place suddenly removed from him. It was as if he'd just stepped into the middle of a heartbeat and time had parted and flowed around him leaving him stranded here, in the middle of nowhere.

"It's all right, Curt."

Curt tore his gaze away from the silent movie of the world beyond and turned to look at the owner of the voice.

Jack was dressed as he had been one day when he and Curt dined out in a smart restaurant in West Berlin. It was a place where the clientele had more money than manners, and Jack ensured that he and Curt rocked their complacent little worlds to their foundations. Jack's dress was low-cut in a shimmering silky aquamarine fabric, while his outrageous mock-Elizabethan collar was fashioned from green and blue feathers. With tight black leather trousers clinging to his hips like they'd been painted on and enough cosmetic adornment to make Cleopatra jealous, Curt slunk in with Jack on his arm, looking like a panther partnered by a peacock.

Utter silence descended as everyone watched them, open-mouthed and horrified. But Jack ignored them. They behaved perfectly properly, Jack as elegant as only he could be and Curt clumsily trying to mimic his refinements. They did nothing wrong, but their mere presence was enough to offend. They were asked to leave. They refused. Curt was a little vague on what happened next, but he remembered being back at Jack's hotel well enough, remembered finally yielding completely to Jack in a way he never had with anyone before, not even with Brian; in bed was the only place he'd exercised any power over Brian and he'd been loath to surrender that advantage, especially when the rest of their relationship spun out of control. But Jack... Jack made him feel safe so Curt let go, and it was wonderful.

That the Sidhe chose to wear exactly the same dress now as he'd worn that day was every bit as symbolically reassuring as Jack no doubt intended it to be.

"The feathers," Curt said, stupidly. "I remember the feathers..." Back at the hotel Curt had pulled most of them off the dress, one at a time, giggling, but there had been one or two feathers in Jack's tattered plumage still intact enough for him to tease Curt unmercifully with that night...

"I thought you would." Jack gave him a familiar smile.

"What have you done? Out there, I mean?" Curt waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the rest of the world.

"I've slowed time for the vampires. That way Wesley and Angel won't have any problem defeating them."

"No shit? Reckon I'd have thought twice about screaming at you the way I used to if I'd known you were this fucking powerful."

"No, you wouldn't." Jack smiled again. "Not you."

"Yeah, well..." Curt decided not to argue the point. Jack was probably right.  
"As for you and I – well, we're outside time. So we can have a moment."

"That what you did with Brian?"

"Not... exactly."

Curt looked back at Brian, at the stumbling figure slowly disappearing into the shadows.

"You can't help him. Not now," Jack said, not unkindly but with a finality that closed the lid on Brian's future, sealing it like a tomb.

"Could I have done? Before, I mean?" Curt fumbled for the right words, but Jack looked as if he understood already. Before. Back in the time when Curt and Brian had been young, full of life, hope and promise.

"Only if he'd let you. And he didn't."

"Yeah, but it's not like I tried very hard, is it? Was this my fault, Jack?"

"Your fault, my fault..." Jack shrugged, not from lack of sympathy but in genuine uncertainty. "Neither of us is entirely guiltless, and yet in the end it was Brian himself who chose this path."

"I know, but he blames me."

"It's always easier to hold others responsible than face the consequences of your own action."

"So what did you do to him? I mean, whatever Brian and I once had it's over now. Dead and gone. But he was threatening things, saying he'd get to Arthur, and I can't let -"

"Brian won't hurt Arthur. Or you. Or anyone." The voice was still Jack's, but this time the smile was pure Sidhe. If Justice had a face it might have looked something like Jack at that moment; his expression was utterly unnerving because it wasn't a _human_ one.

Jack was wrong, Curt thought wildly. If he'd had any idea of who Jack really was back then no way would he have _ever_ lost his temper with him. No way in hell.

"I simply opened Brian's eyes, Curt. I showed him who he really was."

"Fuck." Curt swallowed, his mouth dry as he stared at the Sidhe. Okay, so he didn't have a clue what Jack actually meant by that, but going on Brian's reaction it was something very horrible indeed.

Jack moved forward, closing the distance between them, and put one hand up to stroke Curt's face. "You have nothing to fear from me."

"Yeah, I know..." Curt _did_ know, on some gut level that didn't require he reason it out. "I owe you, Jack. For what you did now. And for what you did back then." He left it there, figuring that Jack would understand: without his intervention Curt would have been written off by history as yet another casualty of rock stardom, dead from the usual excesses before he was thirty. Because of Jack, he'd made it out of the seventies in one piece and Arthur had given him reason to keep on living in the eighties and nineties, maybe even into a new millennium if Curt hadn't totally screwed up their relationship tonight. Growing old together. Once he and Brian would have laughed themselves sick at such a notion but from where Curt was standing right now, it sounded good.

Jack cupped his hands around Curt's face and drew him forward, placing a light kiss on his forehead. Curt accepted it for what it was: a benediction, a farewell.

Then Jack stepped back.

~*~

It was like the vampires were wading in treacle, or as if Angel and Wesley had been gifted with super-human powers enabling them to move at a higher speed than their opponents.

"This is magic!" Wesley yelled, dodging out of the way of a vampire fist with ease and getting in a return blow before the vampire had even registered that his intended prey had moved.

"Yeah, make the most of it." Angel elbowed two vampires simultaneously and then whirled around to stake a third. The surviving vampires shook themselves like dazed dogs and lumbered into another slo-mo attack. "It's not likely to happen again any time soon."

"No, I mean this is _magic_ magic!"

"Right." Angel wondered if Wesley actually thought he hadn't managed to figure it out for himself yet. He ducked in under a vampire's attempt to punch him out and did the honours with the stake.

"It's the Sidhe's doing," Wesley went on, almost absentmindedly staking a vampire that threatened to interrupt his flow of thought. "Jack's obviously altered time in some way, making it run faster for us – or slower for the vampires, of course. It's quite fascinating."

"Yeah, fascinating." Three vampires had decided to gang up on Angel. It was something they would regret.

"What do you suppose Jack's doing with Curt?" Wesley retrieved his stake from a pile of dust, picked up the battered but still functional flashlight and peered at the two in question. "Not what he did with Brian, I trust?"

Angel sent two vampires flying, staked a third and then glanced over. He decided that Curt and Jack looked as if they were in a little world of their own and, given what Jack was capable of, that could well be the case - literally. "No, not what he did with Brian."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Quite sure." Angel had been provided with a ringside view of what went on during that little interlude. At one point he'd thought Brian was about to rip Jack's clothes off– which, to be honest, wasn't really what he'd expected - but it all ended before it got started, so to speak. Jack's tête-à-tête with Curt looked much more decorous. Curt seemed quite calm – which, again, was a development Angel wouldn't have predicted.

Angel eyed the two surviving vampires and they eyed him back. The sensible thing would be for them to run like hell, but the vampires Wolfram and Hart used were usually created from vicious thugs who'd been nowhere near as streetwise as they thought. So it came as no surprise that they didn't look like they intended being sensible, which in turn meant that they'd shortly be reduced to ashes.

"Whatever Jack's saying, Curt seems to be taking it quite well," Wesley observed. "Maybe he's even accepting the fact that LA is home to a thriving vampire population."

" _Thriving_?" Angel disposed of one vampire with a swift explosion of violence. "You call this _thriving_?"

"You know what I mean." Wesley gave him a pained look and then, as Angel shoved the last vampire left standing in his direction, staked their final opponent with businesslike efficiency. "There. That's that, then. All done and dusted." He glanced about him and frowned. "Angel, where's Brian gone?"

Looking around, Angel realised that Brian's apparently random staggering about on the fringes of battle had taken him back to the convoy of vehicles that he and his cohort had parked earlier at the far end of the site. "The cars..."

"Oh dear, too late," Wesley murmured as they heard an engine start up and saw one of the vehicles lurch unsteadily forward. "Ah well, he won't get far driving like _that_. Probably just into the nearest brick wall. Was that Jack's plan? Get Brian arrested for dangerous driving? Because if so, I have to say I'm with Cordelia on this one."

Angel hoped his expression suggested that, in spite of current evidence to the contrary, Jack's plan was probably a little more complicated than that.

~*~

There had been a lot of noise after Brian had screamed something about killing everyone. Wesley had shoved Arthur aside with a fierce, "Stay there!" before charging off, armed to the teeth with a pile of pointed stakes he'd produced from the trunk of Angel's car. Arthur was all set to rush after him even so until Cordelia practically flung herself at him, claiming she needed his protection. Arthur had felt morally obliged to stay with her – which he suspected was exactly what Cordelia intended.

Now everything had gone ominously quiet, which might be good news or not. Arthur strode forward, throwing caution to the winds and ignoring Cordelia's insistence that they stay here until Angel said it was safe. He'd waited long enough.

His eyesight had begun to adjust to the dark when someone came towards him with a flashlight. The brightness was blinding. Arthur stopped uncertainly and put up a hand to shield his eyes.

"Curt?"

"Arthur!" Curt dropped the flashlight and stumbled the last few steps into Arthur's arms, clinging to him as if he represented the last rock of sanity in a world suddenly turned to quicksand. Maybe he did at that. "You came to get me?" He sounded as if he didn't dare to believe it.

"Of course I did." Arthur held him close, needing the reassurance of intimacy just as much as Curt. "Did you really think I wouldn't?"

"I don't know." Curt sounded exhausted. "I sort of hoped, but I wasn't sure if you – I mean, I walked out on you again."

"But you _were_ intending to come back, weren't you?" Arthur said it as steadily as he could, trying to put aside his own doubts.

"Yes, only Brian –"

"Then it's all right," Arthur said, weak with relief.

But Curt pulled back a fraction and gazed intently at him. "Arthur, just tell me something."

"What?"

"You're not a fucking fairy too, are you?"

Arthur stared at him in bewilderment. "What? _Me_? Not sodding likely. I'm just a simple Northern lad, remember."

"Yeah, and Brian was from Birmingham, and he was also some sort of fucking fairy queen and..."

"It's okay. I understand."

"No, you don't. Not the stuff that matters, but that's my fault because I don't tell you, because I'm too fucking scared. So I have to say it now, because there's something that terrifies me even more. Want to know what it is?"

"What?"

"Losing you."

"Losing me?" In his wildest dreams, this wasn't what Arthur had expected. He stared at Curt stupidly, but Curt was so caught up by the words he was unravelling that he didn't seem to notice.

"The thought of losing you terrifies me, Arthur. And I didn't even know it until Brian started threatening you, and then I wanted to break his fucking neck. And I was trying so hard to be a mature, reasonable member of the human race up till then – you'd have been proud of me, Arthur. I faced up to my mistakes, apologised and everything. See, I listened to some of that stuff you said even if it didn't look like it, what with me screaming and throwing things and all. But when Brian threatened you, I lost it, completely lost it."

"Why?"

"Why? Because I love you..." Curt broke off and scowled. "Oh shit, now I'm channelling Donny Osmond - I'm such a sad old fucker, Arthur."

Arthur laughed weakly, shaking his head in denial. "No, you're not. And I love you too. In case you were wondering, that is."

"I wasn't. I mean, you wouldn't have stuck around this long if you hadn't..." Curt shrugged, suddenly awkward.

"It's okay, I know what you mean. And I know I push too hard sometimes, Curt. I'm sorry. I've got my own demons telling me I'm a pathetic loser, so when I finally get something good in my life I turn into this bloody pedantic Englishman who wants it spelled out in black and white to make sure it's real."

"Yeah, I know, but my mind's not wired the way yours is. I have to say it in the music, not the words, you know? I can't use words like you can, not when it comes to explaining feelings and that sort of shit."

"Is that so? Well, you're doing pretty well right now for an inarticulate man."

"Yeah? Well, it's amazing what you can do when you're fucking scared. I learnt that tonight. I couldn't walk away, or fight back, so I just had to deal with it. So I guess I can now, if I have to."

"Think you can do it even if you're not fucking scared?"

"Don't know. Maybe. I'm going to work on it. That do for you?" Curt drew Arthur in for a kiss. It wasn't the longest of kisses, or the most toe-curlingly arousing one that Arthur had received, but it was the best ever because of the love that lay behind it. And because Arthur understood that what Curt put into it was himself, and his unconditional surrender. When they broke apart, Arthur felt just as elated as the starstruck kid on the rooftop back in 1974.

"Make a wish," Curt whispered.

But Arthur shook his head. "I don't need to. Not anymore."

~*~

"They're having a moment," Wesley whispered. "Maybe we should just..."

"Just what? Stand around till sunrise?" Angel wasn't totally insensitive, but there were practicalities to be addressed here.

"Well, obviously not _that_ long..."

Angel strode on, hearing Wesley sigh before he followed him. He could sense the approaching dawn with every fibre of his being, and being in so much open space was unnerving on a purely instinctual level.

Curt and Arthur were, indeed, having a moment, but it looked to be a reunion sort of moment rather than a private do-not-disturb moment. They still had their arms wrapped round each other as Angel and Wesley came towards them, meeting up with Cordelia as she approached from the opposite direction.

"It's over?" Cordelia demanded. "Did we win?"

"It's over," Angel confirmed. Almost over, at any rate.

"And yes, we won," Wesley added.

Curt sighed, closing his eyes, and Angel thought he looked punch-drunk, like he'd taken one hit too many. "Arthur?"

"Yes?"

"I'd like to go home now."

Cordelia shook her head. "Uh-uh. First we have to take Angel back to the office because we don't want him bursting into flames at dawn." She smiled brightly at Curt and Arthur. "Not to worry - it'll save you the bother of posting a cheque."

"Bursting into flames at dawn?" Curt looked blank.

"Angel's a vampire," Arthur said, calmly, "but don't worry, he's a good vampire."

"Oh," Curt said. "Sure. Fine. Whatever."

Definitely punch-drunk, Angel decided, and gone well beyond the freaking out stage.  
They trudged back to the car, Cordelia querying them about exactly what had happened and where Brian was. Arthur and Curt seemed content enough just to listen to Wesley's report; they volunteered no questions of their own. Only when they'd all got back to the car did Cordelia look around and frown.

"Hey guys – where's the Fairy man?"

Jack was nowhere to be seen and Angel realised he'd been half-expecting it. Now that the Sidhe had taken care of Brian, and sorted out the unfinished business he had with Curt, there was no reason for him to stay around. Angel noticed that Curt didn't seem surprised by Jack's disappearance either.

"So Brian's having some kind of mental breakdown and just driven off?" Cordelia was still trying to make sense of this as Wesley accelerated away from the factory.

"He was driving very badly," Wesley informed her. "He'll be pulled over by the police in no time."

"And then what?" Cordelia demanded.

"We monitor the local news reports and see what happens next, I suppose." Wesley was aware that this wasn't a very satisfactory answer. He slid his gaze off the road and onto Angel for a moment and Angel pulled a face, which meant he had no idea what would happen after Brian was arrested because the Sidhe hadn't let him in on that little detail.

Surprisingly it was Curt who supplied Cordelia with an answer – of sorts. "Whatever happens to him, he won't be a threat to us again."

Cordelia obviously found this less than reassuring. "And you would know this because...?"

"Because Jack told me."

"Oh well, if _Jack_ told you..." Cordelia pulled one of her most expressive faces, then sighed and gave up. " _Fairies_!"

 

~*~

 

Their footsteps echoed through the empty tunnel of the corridor, the slow, measured tread of the lawyer pacing the quicker more impatient steps of the young police officer. The lawyer judged that the officer had other – and in his eyes, less tedious – jobs awaiting his attention and was keen to get to them quickly, as if his personal contribution could somehow swing the balance of law and order in favour of the LAPD. In a few years he would assuredly learn better.

"We've got the guy in an interrogation cell – he tested negative for drink and drugs but he spooked everyone out in the holding pen."

"Really?"

"Yeah. He wasn't raving or anything - like he was when we brought him in - but man, he was still pretty freaky. Staring at people and talking a lot of crap about fairies and demons. We get all sorts of weird shit in here, but this one..." The officer shook his head slightly, as if to imply that this particular prisoner had gone right off his personal meter for strange behaviour.

"I take it you're holding him for dangerous driving, rather than being 'pretty freaky'."

"That's the long and short of it. The guy's still insisting that he's Maxwell Demon – even though his driver's license gives his name as Robert Johnson – and that he works with you people."

The lawyer nodded. "We did, of course, check our records for Robert Johnson, and we have no information on anyone of that name, either as employee or client. Or, indeed, of anyone with the name 'Maxwell Demon'."

"Now why don't that surprise me?" The officer drew to a halt outside a battered metal door and slid back the covering that masked the grille. "Sorry you had to be called out, but you understand that even if this guy's a whacko and nothing checks out, he still claims he knows you, so..." The officer shrugged. "You take a look and tell me if you recognise him, just for the record."

"Of course." The lawyer smiled courteously and looked into the room.

The man sitting at the table inside was almost unrecognisable. Only days beforehand he had been possessed of a striking charisma, radiating an aura of power and barely repressed energy. Today, his shoulders were hunched, his face was lined and he looked colourless and middle-aged, stripped of personality. It was the eyes that drew the lawyer's attention the most, recalling as he did how those eyes had once demanded attention, penetrating and sharp as knives. Now they were glazed, as if they were seeing things that weren't there, as if the owner was locked in a little mad world of his own. He was staring down at the worn formica surface of the table, and his lips were moving. The lawyer couldn't hear the words, nor did he very much want to. It was clear that something had gone disastrously wrong, and that meant it was time for Wolfram and Hart to cut their losses.

"I'm sorry. I've never seen this man before in my life. I'm afraid he's quite obviously deranged."

"You got that right."

"What will happen to him?" the lawyer asked, casually.

"Eventually some sorta mental institution, I guess. Whoever he is."

"What a pity." The lawyer hesitated and frowned. "It may be nothing, but the name 'Maxwell Demon' – I do seem to recall hearing it before, although I can't quite think of the context."

The officer shrugged indifferently. "Some British rock star from the seventies, so my partner reckoned."

"Ah yes, now I recall the name. Maxwell Demon was the alter ego of rock star Brian Slade. And Brian Slade later reinvented himself as Tommy Stone. I'm sure you must have heard of the Stone-Reynolds scandal."

The officer's interest was caught. "Hey – you think this guy could really be _Stone_?"

"I have no idea." The lawyer smiled pleasantly. Naturally no line of investigation would incriminate Wolfram and Hart – all that had been taken care of - but nudging the enquiry in this direction would divert attention away from the absurd claims Johnson was making about a respected firm of lawyers. "But it's an area you might want to check out."

"Yeah, I'll do that. Thanks."

It was always gratifying when people were so easily manipulated and this young officer, bored with routine and eager to make a difference, was making it very simple.

By tomorrow, Brian Slade would once again be headline news in all the papers.

 

THE END


End file.
